There was a steel and fabric glider
on the back porch
of my Great Aunt's house. It sat on the shaded side of the big farm house and housed kids from dawn to dusk
in the summer, in between Lemonade
, Ice Cream and Ghosts in the graveyard
. There were a few hours after dinner when the grown-ups
would steal it and we would have to sit on the wood floor of the porch or jostle for spaces in laps. We would try to listen in on conversations
we didn't understand while complaining of the smell of cigarettes, cheap cigars and the odor of gin
in tall, sweaty glasses sitting on end tables.
The glider was sturdy, and could hold three adults or six kids. It squeaked constantly, but when the occupants pulled their feet off the floor it moved in rhythm and had a sweet melody.
EEE~e. EEE~e. EEE~e.
Whenever I see the first fireflies of the summer, or hear the sounds of children chasing one another in the dark, fearless, I imagine I can still hear the glider.
It's a reassuring sound.