My hammock swing is my favorite spot in my yard. Even though it’s close to the road, in my swing I feel cocooned, not exposed. The swing hangs from the same long rope the kids’ disc swing occupied decades ago, but unlike my ornery daughter, I don’t jump off a chair and pretend to swing out over the street. Instead, I kick off the great American elm that holds my swing. Today, after hours of pressure washing and painting, I retreated to my swing, shuffled out of my Crocs, and put my bare foot to bark.
This swing is both comforting and comfortable. As usual, I found myself curled into the embrace of my swing, left foot tucked in with me, right foot stretched toward the tree, eyes shut, head tipped to the sky but still cradled in my hands. And I pushed, toe to tree.
Bare feet are still tender in early June and elm bark is rough. This might hurt, but it will toughen my feet. It will toughen me. So, I push. This easy back and forth motion, this swaddled swaying, loosens my mind. I just think. Remember. With each creaking arc, a little tension leaves, sometimes riding a wave of tears.
Push, creak.
I spent hours in these swings with Cooper last spring and summer. Hours before his turmoil was obvious, while it was still lurking beneath denial and disbelief and desperate hope that whatever this was would pass; and hours in his last two months, after psychosis and hospitalization and medication. Peaceful hours of just hanging out, then confusing hours of disjointed conversation and unlikely plans, and eventually hours of trying to understand life. Trying to find a way forward.
Push, creak.
June 9th, 2020, Coop left for the Shawnee. He wasn’t himself, but felt he needed to go — needed to figure out what he’d do next. Move west? Look for work in this area? Return to Carbondale? Write a book? He hoped time in the forest would help him clear his mind and find clarity, but the opposite happened. We didn’t see him for 10 days and only received two or three short, nonsensical texts. Those were the scariest days of my life; I didn’t know if he was alive. Finally, after a harrowing psychotic break and days without phone, glasses, or wallet, he connected with friends in the area and made his way home. June 9th, when the worst started, is this week. Another damn anniversary.
Push, creak.
As I swing, four squirrels chase through the trees, chittering at each other, scolding me, making great leaps. A tree rodent rodeo. And I think about Cooper at two and three, enchanted by squirrels, tossing stale bread out the window with Grandpa Clark. That was his only enduring memory of Grandpa. On one push off the tree, I wonder if I can find Cooper’s stuffed squirrel, his favorite stuffed creature. No bears for the toddler version of my mountain man.
Push, creak.
I should get out of the swing. I should do something. But I can’t. I can’t stop the stream-of-consciousness memories eased out of me with each push, each creak. Maybe today, for just a slice of the day, I don’t want to stop. Maybe even if I could make myself, I wouldn’t. I have mind unpacking to do this summer. Unpacking that will take hours, days, weeks, months. Unpacking that has waited since Cooper’s suicide in August. I’ll unpack as I paddle around a lake, I’ll unpack as I float in my pool, and I’ll unpack as I swing.
Push, creak.
I keep swinging. I swing myself into a hazy, partial sleep for a few minutes, my foot still pushing off the tree, working on muscle memory. I let myself drift, my thoughts braiding a rope of past, present, future, of heartbreak, love, hope.
Push, creak.
Woods Writes 