His little legs moved at a snail's pace. They couldn't go any faster, he was, after all, only 3. They were off to the park and he liked it there. Many children turned up with their mothers to revel on the playground equipment. The kids could be tentatively approached, but mostly, he liked to watch them.
He walked so slowly that like every good mother, she adapted her gait to match his. She couldn't rush him, he was only 3 after all. The bones in her legs and feet felt heavy as if welded to the asphalt. Her mind recalled x-ray machines that used to be permanent fixtures in shoe stores. You could see your toes wiggle in quality footwear made by Savage.
She became aware of her every step: raise the leg,
and let it inch down to meet the pavement.
Her knees bent easily, the hinges were obviously well-oiled. Slow gave her the time to get lost in her perceptions.
They finally got there. The park was empty. Lonely swings were waiting for little bodies to rock. She suggested that he sit on one of them and lifted him gently onto the seat. "No way!" he cried. Petrified, he felt ungrounded like a two-pronged plug. She was puzzled (he could tell), but she never said anything.
The park was quiet, unusual because the weather was sunny and relatively warm for a Fall day. Her little son had never sat on a swing before but she was sure he would love it. She remembered soaring high to touch the sky. Part of the thrill was knowing that she could be propelled into the air to kiss the birds.
She placed him carefully on the swing but he squirmed and insisted on getting off. He didn't feel safe. Perplexed she wondered how to reassure him. She sat on the seat to show him how it was done but he wouldn't have it. She raised him onto her lap without letting her feet leave the ground. He immediately felt reassured and secure nestled in the curve of her hips, instinctively knowing that an oscillating pelvis is the best of all swings.