A multicolored purse swung low on her hip. Not such an unusual occurrence, but it was marking time with the swing of her shoulder length bob, flipped slightly out at the ends. They moved in unison the purse, and her hair. A practiced dance choreographed over her left shoulder. The purse bounced off her hip in rhythm to her hair glanced at the nape of her neck. The sun caught the highlights in her hair and reflected them onto the gold clasp of her bag. And it was perfect.
It transported me back to a day spent on the rusty swing set. The creaking of un-oiled chains kept rhythm with the clunk of that one swing support that had never been secured. It would lift just an inch off the ground and then slap back down. The rhythm kept pace with my speed as I tucked my legs under the seat with a fervor and force as hard as my six-year-old legs could muster. At the peak of the back swing I would lean back as far as my arms could extend, and with all my might and doggedly determination, shoot my feet out to the sky. And I would fly. And it was perfect.