I’d been putting it off for months. That seemed the best strategy. If I left it alone, maybe it would leave me alone. But it wouldn’t. The swing set, the kids’ swing set, had to be taken apart and thrown away.
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It was rusty. True. Its seats were broken. True. Its ladder was missing rungs. True. It was time already. Very true.
My kids are 30 and 33. The swing set is at least 25 years old. I remember lugging the box off the top of my car, carrying it piece by piece down the back steps, putting it together, digging the holes for the concrete moorings, and pushing the first kicking feet high into the swinging air.
Strange, I still seem the same age in my head as I was then. Nothing’s changed. I’m still their father. They’re still my kids.
I suspect it’s becoming a tradition for our age group…the 55 to 75 Boomers to begin facing such things as disassembling the past and bracing for the future. I’m prepared to do it.
I’ll start tomorrow.
In the meantime, I’ll reserve a place for the swing set in my head…where it can never grow old.
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