Icarus on a Swing Set

She walks up and pulls herself onto the seat. Her feet are dangling below her. She briefly looks around for spectators, just in case her skirt flies up. She giggles in anticipation.

She begins. Back and forth; higher and higher.

Look ahead. She sees the ground before her. Flowers push their way through fading footsteps. They begin to cover old paths with the promise of new beauty and future harvest. She can barely see the soil, but it does faze her. She does not wish to see the dirt. The blooms are far too seductive for her gaze to move to the roots.

She continues. Back and forth; higher and higher.

She now sees the canvas. It rises from the flowerbed before her. The paintings are so colorful, and with each swing she pushes harder, flying closer. She sees the detail of the faces. She laughs. After all, she’s never seen a kiss between two old men.

The chains are taught with her weight and they hum with her rhythmic motion. Back and forth; higher and higher.

She sees a field of blocks beyond the canvas wall. The rectangular obelisks seem almost like toys from this height, and children jump playfully from one to the other. She questions why such a playground was made to be such a somber grey color. Around the field she can see specs of gold shining up from the ground. They brighten the dull pavement and nicely complete the scene.

She is almost at the top now. She need only swing a little bit harder, and fly a little bit higher. Back and forth; higher and higher.

She sees the sky. The warm blue tone smiles at her, with clouds framing the edges of its face. At this height she can see forever. She sees the power plants. She sees the construction. Towering buildings are rising in the distance. Finally the sun catches her gaze. It burns her eyes and she presses them shut. She loses focus. The chains tear violently, her legs flailing off the edge of the seat.

She is falling now. Back and forth; lower and lower.

Her eyes crack open, and through the slit she sees swarms of people. The odor of refuse scratches at her nose and cigarettes are ground into the grass below her. She falls farther with each swing. She sees them climbing the fence that guards the canvas. They are spraying upon it their own take on history. She watches their colors mix into the cement. Eventually she loses track of the original work.

The rust from the chains pinches at her fingers, but she dare not loosen her grip. Her feet are reaching towards the ground below her. Back and forth; lower and lower.

The blocks are staring at her, screaming at her. They are listing names. The names beat against her ears, eventually forming an oppressive and deafening hum. The sound reverberates through the field and the golden squares reflect the burning sunlight back into her eyes. The faceless children continue to play. They are blind. They are deaf. How else could they not see it? How could they not hear it?

She twists and writhes, the chains shrieking as she falls. Her feet desperately grab at the ground. The toes touch first. They curl and pull at the grass, begging it to help. Reaching farther, she grinds her heels downward and finally comes to rest. She sits. She is still, her feet firmly planted in the dirt.

She is motionless, except for her gaze. It stares; lower and lower.