Summer Swing

by Keisha Poiro

Driving to work this summer, I noticed a couple of  little boys playing on a tire swing. The tire swing was connected to a tree that stood on the edge of a trailer park. In the sixteen seconds before the stoplight changed, I was reminded of what's become of my life. The registration on my car has expired. I need my Pro-Activ refill, like, yesterday. Is Jordan terrorizing the nanny and I'm pretty sure I left my curling iron on?

I used to have a tire swing. Nowadays, my swing is my home office. Full of white noise and vanilla scented candles, it's my oasis of chaos. I sit among ghosts of ambitions past. Spec scripts nobody wanted. Counseling how-to books from another, more idealistic dimension.
I wish I could go back to my eight year old self. I was going to be a spy. Either a spy or a brain surgeon. That was before my kindergartner. Before  school clothes. Before birthday cupcakes.

Maybe I could get myself a tire swing. God knows our yard is big enough and secluded so the neighbors won't see me. Then again, how much would it cost? Will I embarrass myself by squeezing my humungous butt into a half-rotted tire? What if I get stuck? Or will larvae just burrow into the tread, rendering the whole contraption a useless health hazard?

I wish I had my own tire swing, but it's too late.  August is out the door and sunny days are numbered after Labor Day. Maybe I'll pack up Jordan and head south to Disney World. They've got rides, but I don't think they have tire swings. Then again, maybe the  kids will invite me into their trailer park and share  their swing with me. Just once. That would be nice.