Six sentences for Sunday, September 7:
Soon I will have outgrown the swing. Already its wood is growing porous and soft, the varnish all peeled off. One day I will jump off it and never come back.
I’m thinking of the abandoned swing rotting away on its ropes when Albie rushes up behind me and shoves me hard. My legs lift as the swing rises, and rises, and rises. Air rushes past my ears in a two-step rhythm, one deep gasp as I go up and a sharp exhale as I lurch back. Albie’s palms press against my shoulder blades, forcing me higher and higher.