Empty Swing Set

The swing set's still there,
rusted chains groaning a little
in the wind, like an old man's bones.
It hasn't been touched
in years, maybe a decade.
Dad swore he'd take it down,
said it was an eyesore,
but he never did.

Now he's gone too.

I remember pumping my legs,
higher, higher, trying to touch the sky.
The wind whipping through my hair,
a laugh bubbling up from my chest.
Susie was next to me,
always next to me.
Two little girls, dreaming big dreams
under a summer sun.

Where did those dreams go?
Where did *she* go?

Leukemia took her, swift and cruel,
a thief in the night.
I was eight.
The world tilted on its axis,
never quite right again.

I haven't swung since.

Funny, the things you hold onto.
This rusting metal frame,
a silent monument to joy and sorrow.
Mom says I should sell the house.
Too many memories, she says.
Too much pain.

But what would I do with it?
With the swing set gone,
with the echoes of laughter silenced,
would there be anything left
of us?

I sit on the porch, watching the shadows lengthen,
as the sun dips below the trees.
The swing set sways gently,
as if Susie's ghost is still there,
pushing off with her tiny feet.

Maybe I'll give it a push tomorrow.
Just one.
For her.
For us.

Maybe I'll remember the feeling
of flying, if only for a moment.
Maybe I'll close my eyes
and hear her laugh again.

It's a small thing,
this rusty swing set.
But it's everything.
It's childhood,
it's loss,
it's love,
it's all the things
I can't quite let go of.

The wind picks up,
and the chains sing their mournful song.
I stay there until dark,
watching the swing set,
remembering.

And for a little while,
I'm eight years old again,
beside my best friend,
reaching for the sky.