Is there anything more inviting than a swing on an empty playground? Perhaps a warm cup of coffee on a rainy afternoon, or a dog in mid play bow with tail slowly wagging. Many things will draw an involuntary smile. A garden of wildflowers, an open fire, the look on my PH’s face as he pets The Cat. Yet, the magnetism of the childhood activity is hard for me to resist. It is silly, isn’t it? I am thirty-two, not eight. I shouldn’t miss the rush of air on my face or the satisfaction of leaping into sand from giddy heights, landing on two feet without a wobble. It is hard to say what part of me still craves the feeling of legs pumping and hair wafting. Nostalgia is too simple. But can it be anything else?