Song Upon a Swing
Summer Song
Dominique Bretin
My daughter was nearly four when she first discovered the thrill of flying independently on a swing. She loved it especially in light summer rain.
Now, it's an ordinary Tuesday evening. I sit alone in the same backyard that was her private garden. All are mainly quiet in the neighborhood, no chickens clucking, lawnmowers whirring, no radios or joking voices from back deck bar-b-ques—no dogs barking—all quiet, except for a distant bass of soft rumbling thunder. And by the look of the gathering clouds, it seems a shower will soon approach. It’s been two months since it rained. A bit of moisture will be as welcome as a soak after hiking on a hot dusty trail. I wait here on my porch patiently, shoulders hunched, anticipating the soft fleeting relief that the rain will bring. The smells become more redolent now, atmospherically layered between invisible ribbons of air—jasmine, rose, lavender, earth, a scent of zinc and forest floor. The plants pull upward, naturally. They don’t know about global warming. If they did, they’d sense that something was off. The thunder gets louder, angry clouds banging into one another, but they will not generate enough rain to quench the lean of withering trees.
Amidst it all, I strain to hear that high sweet note. The one that brought me such bliss. The finches, sparrows, and a new bird I don’t yet recognize—a transplant of different feathers—land on the dry blades of lawn. The swing set has been dismantled and removed. The divots in the grass caused by the motion of the old swing set are gone. Even the tell-tale signs are no longer visible, yet the roses and peonies still line the space, giving off luminous colors. The flowers served her as reliable markers, the bright spots to which she aimed her sweeping toes, pushing her legs backward and forward to achieve momentum, her little arms strong on the ropes that pulled her higher and higher to floating, attaining that swinging level where energy becomes superfluous. Catching that moment, she’d sing—soprano wind chime—steady and crystal clear, her face tilted up toward the summer rain. Every songbird echoed her joy, and I so much long to hear it again—a sound so close—my heart wears like a cracked teacup, filling easily, yet impossible to keep full.