I was out on an errand last Saturday and my auto went past
the park I played in as a kid. I hadn't been inside in about
12 years. I said stop, paid the driver and walked in. It's smaller than
I remember. The gate is rusty and the tree by the entrance is half
the size I thought. The swings are still there, 4 of them. The one
on the end had a bit of paint left, blue. I sat on it.
The chain was cold and the seat was a little too low for my knees. I
pushed off with my feet, not very high, just enough to feel the air on my face.
I was 8 on that swing for about 30 seconds. I remembered the smell of
the dust there. My father used to wait by the gate with a newspaper and shout
that it was time to go home. There was a boy of 6 or 7
waiting for the swing next to me, staring at me. He said, auntie, it's my turn.
I said, I know, 1 minute. He said, you've been here 10 minutes. He was right. I
got off and he took it like it belonged to him. Which, I suppose, it does now.
I sat on a bench for a while and watched him go higher than I ever dared
to. I bought a cup of roasted peanuts outside the gate for 10 rupees and walked home.
I didn't tell anyone for 2 days because it felt too small to mention. Then I told
my father on the phone. He laughed and said the swings were fixed twice in his time.
I didn't know that. He was probably the one holding the ladder while a man fixed them.