There's something about a swing that relaxes my soul. Maybe it takes me back to my childhood to the days where I spent countless hours being rocked in the arms of family, Momma and Maw Maw's rockers, or the old swing at Paw Paw's house.
Nestled in the backyard the fragrance of Satsumas was the first smell to fill your senses. The swing set between two large trees near the gravel driveway. I can still hear the acorns crunching beneath my feet as I carefully made my way barefoot to its place. Paw Paw, in his mesh trucker hat with the name of his business emblazoned ono the front and his uniform shirt with the name patch always claimed the end of the swing and rested one arm outstretched along the back of the swing. He always set the rhythm and cadence of the rock since his feet were the only ones that touched the ground, no matter how hard I tried. A warm breeze attempted to cool the wet, muggy air, but more than often was unsuccessful.
Many times, the swing was crowded as Laura, Billy, Hope, Craig, or Larry often joined us. But today was different. I had him all to myself. I'm sure there was conversation, but I am unable to jog that memory. Even now, I can recall very few of the words we've spoken, and for that I have regret. But this day, I remember his song.
Slow and steady, his voice carried a sweet melody as he sang the words, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, Coming forth to carry me home..." His voice was rich with depth of character and soul of the man he was. And his voice will forever be attached to that song.
Today I don't see him as often as I should, or as often as I would like and each time I do, he ages tremendously reminding me of the little time I have left to make more memories.
Nestled in the backyard the fragrance of Satsumas was the first smell to fill your senses. The swing set between two large trees near the gravel driveway. I can still hear the acorns crunching beneath my feet as I carefully made my way barefoot to its place. Paw Paw, in his mesh trucker hat with the name of his business emblazoned ono the front and his uniform shirt with the name patch always claimed the end of the swing and rested one arm outstretched along the back of the swing. He always set the rhythm and cadence of the rock since his feet were the only ones that touched the ground, no matter how hard I tried. A warm breeze attempted to cool the wet, muggy air, but more than often was unsuccessful.
Many times, the swing was crowded as Laura, Billy, Hope, Craig, or Larry often joined us. But today was different. I had him all to myself. I'm sure there was conversation, but I am unable to jog that memory. Even now, I can recall very few of the words we've spoken, and for that I have regret. But this day, I remember his song.
Slow and steady, his voice carried a sweet melody as he sang the words, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, Coming forth to carry me home..." His voice was rich with depth of character and soul of the man he was. And his voice will forever be attached to that song.
Today I don't see him as often as I should, or as often as I would like and each time I do, he ages tremendously reminding me of the little time I have left to make more memories.
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