Imagination

The swing screamed in protest as Dylan swung his legs slightly forward.  Years of disuse had left the joints crusted over with rust.  He sighed and put his feet back on the ground. 

Years ago, when he was a boy, this swing had seemed so much more.  He had pumped his legs furiously, trying to get up enough momentum to launch himself into space.  3…2…1… Lift off.  He had flown through the air, landing hard on the soft red dust of Mars, ready for battle with the Martians.  Donavan was always a few seconds behind at lift off.  Always stumbled a little on landing.  But then they were off, battling for Earth’s survival against evil space creatures that looked a lot like the girls in their class.

Astronauts, dinosaur hunters, pirates, and professional athletes, they had turned this playground into one imaginary place after another.  They were oblivious to the graffiti, the broken and run down equipment, the trash.  It was all left behind with the Projects as they were transported to better lives inside their games.

But the real world had a way of eating away at imagination, the way that poverty had a way of eating away at hope.  There was no time for make-believe when Donavan’s dad went to jail.  He had only been eight.  No time to pretend, or play, when Dylan started trying to pick up odd jobs to try and help Mama put food on the table.  He had only been ten.  Childhood ended early for them, like so many kids with the same color skin.

Dylan had made it ‘out.’  He had given up almost everything for a chance at college.  Everything except football.  He got a partial scholarship to play for a small school two states away.  He worked two part time jobs and took out student loans to cover the rest.  He graduated with a mountain of debt, lasting damage to his knees, and a teaching certificate.  He was a high school football coach; far from the astronaut he had dreamed of being as a child, but he was happy.

Donavan hadn’t been so lucky.

Ignoring the swing’s protest, Dylan pushed himself back and let go.  He gripped the rusty chains, trying to rub away the feeling Donavan’s cold skin, the smooth lacquer of the casket, the dirt he had tossed into the grave.  Donavan hadn’t been so lucky.  Dylan pumped his legs.  The old swing set shuddered and squealed in protest, but he swung higher and higher.

3…2…1… Lift off!  For a moment Donavan was there, just behind him.  The future stretched out, full of possibility and hope.  They would be astronauts, or dinosaur hunters, or pirates, or professional athletes.  They would fly away.

He landed hard.  Pain shot up through his knees and he fell. On his hands and knees in the dirt he cried; silent tears for the boys killed by the graffiti, the broken and run down playground equipment, the trash, and the Projects.  Donavan was buried with a bullet hole in his chest.  Dylan couldn’t see the hole in his chest, but it was there all the same; years of poverty, inequality, and struggle burrowing their way toward his heart.  It would kill him too, one day.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up.  It would kill him one day, but not today.