When we were kids we made a swing, attached it to a tree on the edge of the front yard and had fun. It was dangerous, because every time we pumped our feet we floated out over the street, before the swing yanked us back to reality. I hated that swing, and the boy who built it. Sam Smalls, a tall, lanky boy with strawberry blonde hair and pale skin that contrasted with my own ginger hue.

 At ten I was short for my age, an awkward girl who hid in her older brother’s shadow. John, my thirteen year old brother always went first, hopping on the swing without a care in the world, pumping half a dozen times before leaping off, sailing through the air as the rest of us watched in awe. Gracefully, he would land on his feet in the empty road, turning around to grin at us. “ Who’s next?” he’d ask, still grinning.

 That first time, Sam plopped me on the hard wooden board and I struggled to pump.
 “Ah, she don’t know how ta’ swing,” Sam taunted. He gave the swing a shove, and I flew, alright. Right off the swing and into the deserted street, landing hard on my knees and elbows. Whimpering ,I got up.
 “Cryyy Babbbyyyyyy,” the children roared.

 “Aw, she’s alright,” John decided. ”Next time don’t push her so hard.”
  But every time I got on the swing it ended the same way. Me kissing the asphalt. Sam enjoyed pushing me off the swing, I guess. As the scrapes on my knees grew more painful I resolved to watch, and not participate. I became one of the kids that screamed,” Car,” whenever one approached. I was just a bystander.

 Summer dwindled to an end and they forgot the swing. Not me. When the other kids played baseball I would venture out to the edge of the yard and climb onto the hard board. I pumped as hard as I could. Then I would wait for the swing to slow down before slipping off. I refused to jump off.
 On the last day of summer Sam gathered us up. “Let’s try the swing one more time.” By now I was taller, up to his chest and he noticed me. “You ain’t gonna try are you, Willow? Too scared?”
 “Save the best for last ,” I retorted. He shrugged and hopped on, pumping wildly, before flinging himself off the swing. It was a disaster. He plunged headfirst to the ground and landed with a thump. We laughed. “I guess pigs can’t fly,” I offered. He didn't appreciate my wit as he hobbled out of the street.
  Finally it was my turn. With a smirk Sam watched me board the swing. I pumped slowly first, then pushed my legs to the limit as I flew back in forth. The crowd ahhhhed. “Let’s see her jump.” That was Sam. So I jumped.I soared off the swing , through the summer air and spun on my toes in a landing. That last moment in the air, that last second, I conjured up the image of Sam. Sam, kissing the asphalt. I smiled.