I take my grandson little Jack
to the pocket park on Kennedy Ave.
The new carpet of cedar chips
hasn’t arrived yet.
It’s one of those especially sunny
late spring mornings and someone
just mowed the grass across the way.
If I knew how to whistle, I would.

Jack’s hair is curlier than usual–
he looks so dear in that pale yellow sweater,
a hand-me-down knitted by someone,
that ended up in the bottom of a drawer
at my house.

I lift him into the baby swing 
(my back abides for a change)–
it looks like his little arms and legs
are sticking out of a bucket.
Happy just to look around, he knows 
somethings up, way way up,
when I look him in the eye, shout:
Are you ready? Are you super ready?

I pull the front of the swing
towards me, up
up up up
and let it go–
Jack’s face is so alive, brown eyes wide, 
mouth open, his curls unleashed,
a sound–
a squeal, a whoosh 

I tell my daughter about our little trek:
It’s as if it was the first time he’d been on a swing!
She answers: It was.