Anonymous Submission
The Playground
“Daddy, can I go on the swing again?”
“Sure baby, but only for a few minutes. Then we’ve got to get home for dinner.”
She scampers to the far end of the playground, head bobbing and coils of curls bouncing through the late-summer evening. When she finds the same swing from fifteen minutes ago—her swing—she turns and smiles and waits. And she looks so grown up. When the hell did this happen? I find a picture on my phone from this day last year; her chubby cheeks and saggy diaper prove the point. The girl in the photo is from a universe ago. My daughter is no longer a baby and I have no idea how or when that happened.
“Can you pick me up?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I shove my phone into my pocket and lift her to the seat.
“How high?” I ask.
“Not too high.”
“Okay. Are you holding on?”
“Yeah.”
I hold her waist and pull until she’s at my shoulders.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes!” She giggles and her feet flutter.
I let her go, and my girl flies through the air. Alone and vulnerable; free and beautiful. She rises and she falls, like a pendulum marking our time. With each tick comes another thought. She rises and I imagine what she’ll look like a year from now. She falls and I imagine every possible tragedy that could end that year short. She rises and I think of her brother; she falls and I think of my mother’s broken hip. I think of hurricanes, vaccines, mid-term elections, fires, new short-story ideas, and pick-up touch football. I think of anything and everything thousands of miles and millions of moments from my perfect daughter on her perfect swing. This is indeed the pleasantest thing and I’m nowhere to be found.
“Daddy, push me.”
“Sorry, baby.”
A gust of wind helps me restart her momentum and bends the towering pines lining the playground. I wonder how tall they are and remember the last time we were here figuring the tallest to be about sixty-five feet. I reassess and land on a similar number. If it crashed down in our direction, would it reach us? I’m not sure. But I imagine it doing just that and plot out every detail of my rescue mission. How I’d pluck her swiftly but gently from the swing. How I’d predict the tree’s precise landing spot by analyzing the wind speed and direction. How I’d toss her away from that landing spot and to the soft bed of cedar chips. And this would all happen in mere microseconds, of course. But probably not fast enough to save myself. I’d be crushed to death.
That is what I’d do, right? I’d die for my daughter. Of course I would. Wouldn’t I? I breathe in reassurance, and breathe out disgust. How fucked up is that. I’m fantasizing about my girl witnessing the death of her father. Just to be a hero? Do I even care about her? Is it all about me?
“Daddy, push me.”
“Sorry, baby.”
“I love you.” I say and nudge the small of her back. It’s the four hundredth time I’ve told her today.
“Just a few more.” I move to her front and take out my phone. Pictures and videos will prove that these moments were real.
“Say, hi mommy!”
She grins wide and belts out her line, and it’s perfect. But we take another, trying for something even better.
“Hi Mommy, I love you!” She leans back and yells to the sky. On the descent, her right foot snags ground and she’s flung forward, her arms blocked by the swing chains. Her head topples and turns, bracing for impact with the earth. My heart stops and my body goes.
I’m sprawled out on my belly, like I’ve just slid face-first into home. And she’s on top of me. I feel her chin between my shoulders; her hands moving along my side.
“Are you okay?” I roll over and pull her to my eyes.
“I’m okay.” She smiles down through curls that tickle my cheeks. We get to our feet and brush the wood chips from my shins.
“Let’s go home to Mommy.”
“Okay.”
“What do you want for dinner?”
“Mac and cheese.”
“Orange or white?”
“Orange.”
“Orange mac and cheese it is.”
“Daddy, can you hold me?”
“Sure baby.”
