1/29/2003 - 12:00
There is a fifteen foot high hollow tree just beyond the grass in front of the place we usually park. Sometimes pairs of reflector eyes beam out all nervous and searching the night. Past the tree, there is a gentle hill, more trees, thickets of thorny bushes and the river. This hallowed spot on the Rocky River is one of my favorite places.
On a summer night, the heat gives way to the cooling breath of the dank valley blackness. Illuminated by a couple of high orange lights speckled on the asphalt like adolescent zits, the place glows and sparkles and darkens a dance to the shallow green river.
Across the parking lot, a score of hundred foot trees pepper a play area with metal pelican bouncy spring riding things and rows of swings. My kids love to swing. I love to swing. Jane loves ice cream. (and probably swinging, too) What a special treat to drive the winding road by the river, cool off with an ice cream and swing in the buttermilk night.
The swing and its passenger fly up-and arc back, just like life with its ups and downs. We can lean way back on the down swing and use the momentum to carry us back up.
And sometimes we need a push.
No comments:
Post a Comment