The Swing

My favorite place on the planet for the first two decades of my life was Nanny's house. My mom's mom was my go-to. She loved me. She understood me. She had a great laugh and a nutty temper and a critical eye that spilled out of her mouth without a censor. I miss her every day.

It took me years to lose the impulse to call her when anything of note happened. Telling her  made it real.

Nanny and Papa (Papa died when I was seven, just months before my Dad married Nydia) had a porch swing on their enclosed back porch. I loved that swing: the sound it made, the beanbag ashtrays on the arms, the weird green floral cushion, that everything about it was happy and free. 

I am the youngest of seven cousins. Each of us could tell a different favorite story of time on that swing. When Nanny died in my 21st year, my heart split wide. And I was somehow lucky enough to inherit the swing. It is one of my most prized possessions. 

I am in a new house. It's me. My babes. The dog. Liberty. Glee. Palpable happy in every nook and cranny. A wrap-around porch that is the stuff of my dreams. And a swing that faces the setting sun.

Halpert's first ride. She was born to swing.