“Watch me!”

Your attention shifts to your daughter. You watch her, but part of your mind leaves the present and slinks into a past you have determinedly left behind. No longer are you sitting in your yard watching your daughter on the swing set you built a year ago. Seventeen again, you sit alone in your town’s local playground, trying to escape the dark cloud hovering in your mind. The playground has always been your safe place, a place where to escape the stress of school and life and people and failed expectations and do this, do that, I know you can do better than this, why aren’t  you better than this? The aura of innocence and happiness that radiates off the playground envelopes you and, for a moment, it is just you. The world outside of this moment, outside of the boundaries of solace, is gone. You can finally breathe.

In the background you hear a child on the swingset shouting excitedly for her mother. Both of them are laughing. You turn to watch her, amusement fighting to break through the jail of negativity.

“Watch me!”

The playground disappears, as does your seventeen-year-old self.. But you do not resume your life as a married adult with your daughter either.

You are seven years old and the voice calling from the swingset is your own. It feels like a movie and  you are merely watching from the main character’s perspective. It is you, but you have no control. This moment plays on outside of your hands. You are swinging furiously back and forth, little legs pumping, trying to get the best height for the best jump ever jumped. The landing strip of sand in front of the swing burns into your mind. You are dimly aware that your legs are not tired. The smell of freshly cut grass mixes with that of your father baking. He left the back door open. He is baking cookies and you are tempted to run instead and swipe some cookie dough while he is distracted. But you have more important, adult business to attend to.

You are ready to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for best jump from a swing. You are ready to fly. You want to soar over the roof and not touch ground again until you see the river that runs the border of your small town. You decide, with a slim grasp of what you will later learn is trajectory, when to jump. You jump off the swing, calling out one last time as your hands leave the chains.

“Mama, watch me!”

Sand sprays in from of you. In the back of your mind you make a note to plant grass there instead; the sand gets everywhere.
You shake yourself free of daydreams. You are not seven years old in your backyard anymore; you are not seventeen and afraid anymore. You are an adult. You have the life your seven year old self gave her dolls and your seventeen year old self held on to hope of, and your daughter just jumped the best jump ever jumped.

“Wow! That was amazing! That was a world record jump!”