They’ll Find Us Swinging

When St. Beetle rolled in, bobbing back and forth like floating heads and seductive hips, our leaves went still from the dead air, our branches recoiled from the cold sun. We watched him come in, the young skin that shone warm against the summerless sky, amidst the wailing ghosts. We followed him intently and kept note of those who hid behind their white picket fences. A few blinds closed, curtains rustled, smoke stopped from the chimneys: a silence that hid them in the cold. He may have sensed it too for he placed his hand to buds on his neck forming in the chill. Looking down we saw a slight wind pick golden specks from the little bug’s rims and dust the rows of white houses. 

St. Beetle’s interior darkens. “We can't punch-buggy inside the car Roe.” The whites of Roe’s eyes radiate against her dark skin as she looks at Tad. Sunlight shoots through and the father slows St. Beetle down, his eyes close in peaceful relief, crinkle into creases of skin that shine. “Hmmmmm.” Roe saw, “Hmmmm she mimics.” In the dark Roe and Tad first see large roots, then a trunk. They follow its base up to the heavens: an oak tree. The vast branches bring the children close and whisper a tale. Roe and Tad giggle. 

As they drive away from the sacred shaded cover, Roe shouts back, “You look like wings!”

We laughed and nodded in agreement. St. Beetle snorted, and the family smiled. Eventually the white houses returned, the blazing-cold sun…

Seven days later, two boys in their teens roll by with an iron scent secreting from the exhaust. The boys see the skin, then the dark eyes and high hair, then the shoes: their obsession. They flash hot red. They roll slower, slower, until the car's movement is near imperceptible–they stop. 

The boys smile out the window. “Where you from?” 

“Just moved in but…around” answers Tad.

Their blue eyes freeze Roe solid; their bright silk silver car rims make her eyeballs tighten and dry up to stone. But for Tad, their eyes light a flame. 

Four eyes meet: Roe and Tad watch white boys see Blackness. Two sets of eyes narrow. The car rolls away. 

Both children stand for a moment then walk through the driveway towards their backyard tree. Tad kicks his feet and looks in the whites of Roe’s eyes, eager like two white eggs waiting to hatch. They feel an impending smallness until they see-

“The Swing!”

Swinging, swinging, swinging until their feet hit the branches. Swinging until their necks jerk, send dancing bubbles to their mouths, shoot stars out of their cheeks. S-WING, s-WING, s-WING! 

That night was the first time they saw the rest of their neighbors. One spec, then ten, then a thousand little glowing surveilling eyes that poked from the night. Green and blue glowing eyes that followed them. Bright Glowing eyes that hid in the dark… 

Our leaves turned orange. They fell, then came back to us; birthing, browning and falling. Three cycles later, and Tad looks older. Roe is still small.

They look like odd paintball or bb gun welts. The bruise on his right temple appears like a gunshot in which the blood from its gaping hole slowly spreads across the outer corners of his skin. Like a disease, it swallows his veins and laps up his sweat. The puff of his lower lip reminds Roe of when Tad used to pout. The purple round things bump Tad’s skin up and lower his head; he rests against the swing’s ropey neck. Roe feels the trees rustle differently. “Tad something feels wrong-” 

“Hmm?”

“Don't go out alone at night.”

“Hmmmm.”

He closes his eyes and rocks.

The night wind of August 28th rustled us profusely. Roe watched us shake through the window; from the glow inside, her shadow paced, and she wondered what we meant. 

We shook in thrashes when we saw Tad walking outside, and when he finally asked us “what is it?” with his wide brown eyes staring into ours, we sent a leaf down in warning. It hit his head; he brushed it off. We shook more, shook like thunder. A shame returned, sharp and pointed and coated in the blood of the West banks, the south plantations, the Tallahatchie River…

From the swing they shot to the sky and the weight of their bodies leftover forced our branches to droop towards the earth. If we could speak, would you listen?

Our falling leaves fell in chaos and settled onto a pair of headlights. Rolling in, were two skin-watchers, were glowing blue globes, were waiting bats, were waiting fists, was one waiting rope, was a waiting monster, born from something too deep and slippery, we could never catch it; we wailed. Rolling in were two narrowed eyes, were bright silk silver rims.

Then Tadpole was gone. Where did he go? He swings, swings, swings!

In the morning, Roe continues her pacing in front of the window. She thinks she sees Tad playing ball outside; Roe chases his shadow. He looks so young; his purple smudges are gone and the brown of his eyes that look like fresh soil begin to flower again. Roe runs towards him and looks at his kicks. She sees golden, feathered whisps and looks up in disbelief, “Tad, Tad! There's wings on your Nikes!” 

He laughs and it's big enough for the sun. Up, up and up he goes. She follows his path. From root, to trunk, to branch, through the trees the wind flutters his wings; his Nikes litter golden dust on the houses. Something explodes and, thousands of futures, of bright golden stars shine light beams through the morning sky.

A light which soon resolves, revealing the empty silence of Tads fluttering coat pockets, his shoeless feet, his limp body; Roe can barely recognize it. The wind makes him sway. Dust from Tads muddied body falls into her eyes, catches in her mouth. 

“For what, for who, for why?” she pleads,

For what, for who, for why?

We answered.