Something Nameless, Not Yet Engraved

In memory's telephoto lens, far objects are magnified.  

~ John Updike

. . . . .

In the blurring of its boundaries the swing hovers. Isolated from its original surroundings, its image appears so utterly changed. Slowly the swing begins to move back and forth, creating a rhythm comparable to a pendulum’s steady measure. In the region of its sway, each oscillation produces an extraordinary sense of liberation within. Tirelessly the swing moves to and fro – its image shaping and reshaping itself within the limits of memory that is chalk full of wonderful, yet complicated mysteries. As though by necessity, something nameless seemingly repeats itself, there in the arc of the swing, while deep inside, a just anticipation continues its skip. All too suddenly the impression of the swing starts to blur there in the mind’s presence. Inert and passive, the swing hovers. Slowly, a childhood memory fades as the hour – disguised and displaced, quickens. Stealing forth again, the voice too finds its pulse, attached to a seducing hymn, joyfully rising out of present time…