the sun-catcher
and forgotten childlike wonders
flash fiction for your enjoyment; tips always welcome!
A tire swing hangs loosely from the rope securing it to a branch of an old evergreen tree. Weathering is evidence that it’s hung there for so long, but there’s little to suggest that children play here anymore. No candy wrappers, no foot tracks in the grass—just the lonely tire and rope. Past the tree is a woodland wall that separates the yard from an entire forest. Tiny violets sprout toward the sun from the forest floor.
“How many kids get lost out here?”
I consider the answer to this question. Really, how am I supposed to know that any kids have gotten lost in this forest? It’s good to warn them against meandering through the thick brush for many reasons. They could get lost, come home with an unseen tick, or encounter dangerous wildlife.
“What’s out there?”
We’re at his great aunt’s house. She lives down a miles-long dirt road. The forest is really just sections of undeveloped land between rural outcroppings. There’s likely nothing consequential out there in the trees. I can picture the bats in the night darting in and out of his hair for the tiny mosquitos circling his skin. It’s a terrifying sight to a child. Or, he could find a small pond out here somewhere visited by frogs and snails. It would keep him busy for an entire afternoon to play in the pooling water, make friends with random creatures, and find his way back out from the tree-line.
“Who put up this tire swing?”
He’s satisfied with staying away from the wooded areas. He wants to be with me instead. I’m sure he keeps regretting that he’d rather be inside with his tablet and headphones. Nonetheless, I appreciate his curiosity.
I think back to my own childhood and none of those days were spent swinging on this old tire swing. The swing was erected prior to our relative’s purchase of the property. It’s possible that many other children have played here. Tire swings are a relic of a time before this one; a time when kids were outside in the sun or rain for elongated periods. In this not-so-distant past, kids would come home from their grand adventures by dad’s whistle for dinnertime. They were expected to get lost. The ghosts of these dissimilar cultural histories still linger in the vivid rays of sunlight as we watch the tire slightly catch the wind.
I can’t help but think about my childhood as I stare at this tire swing. I can’t stop the vision in my mind of a young boy holding my hand, observing the same scene where I stand. He asks me questions, like:
“Do you think it will break?”
By the look of it, maybe.
