He meant it as a joke. I know that now. He wanted to send me higher.
But I wasn’t ready for it. I lost my grip. My small hands slipped off the chains, and I flew backward instead of forward.
There was a sickening crack when my head hit a jagged rock near the mulch border.
That’s the last thing I ever saw as a child. The sky tipping upside down, blue and white, and the green leaves of the oak tree over the swings.
I don’t remember the ambulance ride.
I remember waking up in a hospital bed and hearing my mother crying.
I remember thinking it was the middle of the night, because everything was so dark. I remember asking her to turn on the light.
She didn’t answer me. She just cried harder.
I remember doctors whispering words in the hallway outside my door. Words I didn’t understand yet. “Optic nerve damage.” “Severe trauma.” “We’ll have to wait and see.”
