jump

The rope goes up and down and the girls holding the ends swing it out and around, beautiful arcs, it's perfect. My hands out in front of me, cupped towards the rope, moving with the rhythm, and at the right moment I run and jump. I will run and jump soon. Not this swing, but the next, the next, the next. There's a line behind forming behind me. I don't want to hold things up. I'll go on the next swing. Maybe there's not a line; maybe it's my own impatience with myself. I can't look because I'm watching the rope. The rope slapping the ground, rising in an arc, slapping the ground, and my hands cupping the rhythm, and all I have to do is jump, and all I can think about is the sting of the rope when it hits my legs, when I miss. Not this swing, then, but the next, the next.