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  • My sons and I were out on a crisp January morning. The boys were coatless, to better drink the sky - a cobalt blue after days of grey. Out back was a wooden swingset, bleached and mottled from seasons of fierce weather. The wood was cold and somehow soft, the paint long gone, the supports slightly off. The boys flew to the swings, swinging and pumping to instantly dangerous heights. At the highest point of their arcs, when the ride goes zero-g, and you are weightless, they hurled themselves off, tumbling when they hit the frozen ground. I watched heart in mouth, taking comfort that every part of their journey was a joy that refused my parental concern. They were flying, and there was nothing for it but to be amazed.
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