Between the Swing Sets

I used to stand at the back kitchen window, a glass of orange juice in my hand, the morning sun warming my face just the way it is now, years later. As I stand in my Brooklyn kitchen overlooking the fire escape to a view of the red brick building with a white roof next door, a view of birds perched, sometimes flying between my fire escape and the edge of the roof next door, is far from the kitchen I remember in Gary, In. The light always felt like a promise then, and it feels the same today. Through that window, I could see the garden—mom’s cabbages, her tomatoes—and beyond them, the swing set. It was my favorite place, my little kingdom just beyond the kitchen, tucked between the rows of green and the gate that led to the alley.

I would drink my orange juice slowly, savoring every drop, just to linger a moment longer in that sun, imagining the adventures that awaited me outside. The swing set was a place where I could fly, where I could test the edges of gravity and courage all at once. Sometimes I hurt myself—scraped knees, a keloid from hitting a sharp edge, or a chipped tooth from miscalculating a jump—but those small injuries were badges of bravery. They didn’t scare me; they marked the thrill of being alive, of being unafraid in my own little world.

Ms. Johnson bought us a swing set at her house, and my parents did the same at home. Each one held the same kind of magic, the same kind of freedom. I remember jumping too high, feeling the air pull me before my feet hit the ground. One time at Ms. Johnson’s, I misjudged a leap, and my chin slammed into my knees. I chipped a tooth. My mother capped it, but it fell out, and the chip remained, a permanent little proof of my audacity. Even now, I can point to it, a secret souvenir of those mornings.

At home, the swing set sat mostly on dirt. Mom had tried to keep the grass in the backyard, but it never really took. She manicured what she could, tried to make it perfect, but the soil won. There were patches of brown, spots where the grass gave up and dirt took over. Still, the swing set was beautiful. It was a promise of adventure and freedom, a place my sisters and I could escape into the air, laughing, running, climbing, flying. Every scrape, every bruise, my chipped tooth was proof I had dared to test myself.

Ms. Johnson’s swing set was a different kind of magic. Her yard was perfect. The grass was like a green carpet, meticulously laid, soft under bare feet. The swing set sat in the middle of it, framed by bright flower beds that ran from the front gate to the back, a riot of color and scent. She had a green thumb, and it showed in every inch of that yard. Wooden steps led down from the back patio to the grass, and the yard wrapped around the house with the same careful, loving touch. When you swung there, it felt like flying in a painting, surrounded by flowers and sunlight and the scent of life itself.

Both swing sets were gifts of love. One from my parents, the other from Ms. Johnson, each showing in its own way how much we were cherished. At home, the adventure was dirt cabbage and green tomatoes that we loved to eat fried in cornmeal; it was wonderful. At Ms. Johnson’s, the adventure was lush, ordered, almost regal, the kind of beauty you could feel in your toes and in the air around you.

I remember the moments of freedom and mischief—jumping too high, swinging past the safe point, laughing too loudly, running through the cabbages just to see if I could get away with it. At Ms. Johnson’s, I could do the same things but on soft grass, with flowers in full bloom, happy in the sun, and a yard so meticulously cared for it almost seemed impossible to fall. And yet, I did. I scraped a knee, I bit my tongue, I bruised my pride—but it never took away the joy.

Ms. Johnson was always nearby, steady, warm, a grandmother even without the title. She let us be reckless but was ready to catch us if it mattered. She knew how to let us be, how to let children learn the rhythm of play and sun and garden and sky. At home, Mom and Dad were there in a different rhythm, busy with the work of living, but love was everywhere in every piece of the yard, every meal, every garden row. Both places held the same kind of truth: that love is often measured in small, everyday gestures, and sometimes in swings and scraped knees and orange juice in the sun.

That swing set, that window, those yards—they live with me still. The freedom, the adventure, the warmth of the sun on my face, the taste of orange juice, the thrill of testing limits—they are small, perfect capsules of happiness. And the love behind each swing set—whether in dirt or on perfect grass—is the memory I carry forward, a quiet proof of how cherished I was.

And at home, oh, how I loved the vegetable garden. Mom’s cabbages, tomatoes that would never get to ripen in the sun, because we would eat them green, and the smell of fresh soil. It all framed that little swing set like a perfect stage. I could see the world stretch out from there, and for a moment, it was only mine: the crunch of the garden soil, the squeak of the swings, the orange juice cooling in my hand, and the sun painting everything golden.

I was mischievous, too. I’d climb where I shouldn’t, swing too high, run through the cabbages just to see how much I could get away with. Every scrape, every chipped tooth, every small misstep was a story, a secret I carried proudly. I was learning, testing, flying. And Ms. Johnson was there, part of it, quiet and kind, letting me be both reckless and safe at the same time.

That swing set, that window, that sunlight—they live with me still. The freedom of those mornings, the taste of orange juice, the view of the garden—they are small, perfect capsules of happiness, unshaken by anything that comes after.