Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

Originally written for a prompt submitted by @eunicesoe.vics

We used to play seesaw together; you and me.

“Don’t be afraid,” you would say, and convince me to sit on the other end. Again and again would we step on the ground to lift us up and down; up and down. You would always laugh when I squeaked every time it was my turn to spring upward–and I would always shriek when it was my turn to plunge back to the ground.

Years later, when we had grown up so much that we no longer fit in the seats of that seesaw, I saw in your eyes the same doubt that once plagued me. As our fingers intertwined in a single second that transcended momentary boundaries, I saw you hesitate briefly.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said this time. I clutched your hands tight, and convinced you that everything would be okay. That we would be okay. And although it took you some time to regain your composure, you finally surrendered to the rhythm that brought us together–as me moved up and down; up and down atop a figurative seesaw of ecstasy.


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