In the basement there is a swing.
It has a red seat and blue ropes hanging from the ceiling, right next to and along the basement staircase.
The basement also houses my father’s workshop.
Every day after dinner, he will go down and spend time fixing some device or other.
He puts on some music from the 70ies on a cassette tape, like Massachusetts from the Bee Gees, and I can hear his toiling noises adding an interesting background to the song.
I am swinging.
The simple joy of moving back and forth, up and down, the butterflies in my stomach.
I am happy.
I am joyful.
Sometimes my Dad comes out of his workshop to check on me or show me what he’s been working on.
He probably wonders what the fascination is about swinging for hours on end. He was the one who put up the swing and I know he likes the company.
Up and down I go, laughing.
A laughter that comes from deep down in my belly.
A laughter so real, so pure.
A laughter I have not found again since childhood.
I have a swing in my garden.
My Dad put it there.
I think I will give it a go today.