I remember vividly the last time I was on a swing. It was on a warm summer’s eve cloaked in the velvet darkness. My heart beat was ferocious. Perhaps it was due to the company I kept, tall Scottish and male or the fear of being captured by the local police for being in the park past dusk. I was 18. 7 years ago. I had thought about swinging, the air through my hair, sneak peeks up my skirt by the wind, the squeaking of the chains, and the feeling of flight and absolute carelessness. The yearning had grown too strong to be contained any longer. It was Christmas Day and my cousins yearned to escape to the park to try out their new gifts from the oh so infamous Santa Clause who brought to them guns, skateboards, and toys that tell any boy violence is acceptable. To the park we went. To the swings I was drawn and to the swings I went. Now I understand The Swing by Fragonard. The excitement, the titillation, the delight.