I keep a computer equivalent of a junk drawer–a file that’s comprised of random notes, jottings, ideas, deleted story scenes, and other crap that I want to remember but will probably never use. Every so often I’ll crack open the file and rummage around in it (usually because I’m procrastinating).

This morning, in an effort to avoid working on stuff I should be working on, I opened it and came across this note dated January 2013:

There’s a young girl I see every afternoon, swinging on her backyard swing set. She’s not a child–maybe 13 or 14? Older than most kids you see on a swing. But she’s out there every day, in every sort of weather, swinging. She goes really high–as high as possible, given the limitations of Earth physics. 

I’ve never seen her face; she’s too far away. I don’t know who she is. But as I’m tapping away on my laptop at the kitchen table, I can look through the window and see her swinging. In the summer she’s out there two or three times every afternoon and evening, swinging until it gets dark. All by herself, swinging.

She’s out there right now. It’s bitter cold–23 degrees, according to the thermometer, with a 20 mph wind; the air is full of blowing snow. And she’s swinging with a passion. I want so badly to take her photograph, but it seems such a private thing, her swinging. 

She’s wearing red boots.

It’s been thirteen years and that image is still immediately vivid in my mind. The blowing snow, the motion of the swing, the way she leaned into it, the height she’d get. The red boots.

I can recall mentioning her swinging to others, most of whom had some sort of opinion about it. “You should have have taken the photo; you wouldn’t have to publish it.” “Maybe she’s out there swinging by herself because she doesn’t feel safe inside at home.” “It’s a little creepy, isn’t it, to spy on little girls.” “I used to swing like that as a child. It was wonderful and scary. I’m glad you respected her privacy.”

I’m not sure I actually respected her privacy, since I often watched her swinging. And yeah, it’s a bit creepy…or it could be. I never had the sense that she was engaged in escape swinging because she felt unsafe, but how would I know? The sense I got was that she found some wild, fierce joy in swinging. But yes, it was a private joy and wasn’t meant to be a shared experience–certainly not with some older guy a hundred yards away, sitting at his kitchen table.

Here’s an odd thing: I never saw her stop swinging. Or start, for that matter. i’d be on the computer at the kitchen table and the motion would catch my eye. I’d watch for a short while, then get on with whatever I was working on. I’d glance up later and she’d be gone.

I don’t recall the last time I saw her swinging. Must have been 10-12 years ago. Maybe she grew out of it, maybe her family moved away, I don’t know.

I never did take her photo. I sort of regret it. I’m sort of glad I didn’t. But I have that image in my head, and that’s good enough.

That blowing snow, those red boots.