Empty Swings

The park's quieter now.
The swings hang still,
motionless in the late afternoon sun.
They used to sing, you know,
a rusty, creaking song
that was our summer anthem.

Remember Sarah?
Her hair, the color of dandelion fluff,
flying wild as she pumped her legs,
reaching for the sky.
She swore she could touch the clouds.
I almost believed her.

And Michael,
always building sandcastle empires,
destined to crumble
before the tide could even reach them.
He never seemed to mind.
It was the building, not the keeping,
that mattered to him.

We were invincible then,
impervious to scraped knees
and the sting of disappointment.
Our world was bounded by the oak tree's shadow,
our worries, as light as the breeze.

Now the oak stands taller,
its branches gnarled and knowing.
It's seen seasons change,
watched children grow up and move on.

I come here sometimes,
just to sit on this worn-out bench,
and listen for echoes of laughter,
the phantom squeak of the swings,
the ghost of sandcastles on the breeze.

Sarah's a lawyer now,
fighting battles in courtrooms,
not on playgrounds.
Michael's designing skyscrapers,
his sandcastles now made of steel and glass.

We've traded scraped knees for strained backs,
summer freedom for deadlines and bills.

The park is still here,
the swings are still here,
but something is missing.
A piece of us, perhaps,
left swinging too high,
lost somewhere between
childhood dreams and grown-up realities.

And I wonder,
do they ever come back?
Do they ever feel the pull
of this familiar place?
Do they remember the songs
the rusty swings used to sing?

Maybe not.
Maybe the magic only works
when you're small enough
to believe you can touch the clouds.

The sun dips lower now,
casting long shadows across the grass.
Time to go.
Time to leave the empty swings
to their silent song.

But I'll be back.
I'll always be back,
to listen for the echoes,
to remember the laughter,
to feel, for just a moment,
the ghost of dandelion hair
blowing in my face.

Because even though we've grown,
part of us will always be here,
swinging high,
reaching for a sky
that seemed so much closer then.