Swing by AmbarLee Berringer

Mom doesn’t love me and never wants me to spend time with her. Wednesdays are her days to be with me, to take me with her to have fun. But Wednesday after Wednesday she doesn’t show up; it shouldn’t be a surprise that she never does. But it hurts, less each time. This swing that I sit on holds me just right. It was made for me. It might not be new or bright, but it holds me. The swing looks old; maybe it’s as old as my grandpa. When you swing as hard and as long as you can you start to get calluses. At least that’s what Grandpa calls them. He says calluses protect my hands from getting hurt all the time. Maybe my heart has its own calluses? The swing holds me and sways with me whether I want to swing hard or slow. It follows me like my grandpa’s shadow follows him. Peter Pan lost his shadow; hopefully my grandpa doesn’t lose his. He sits on the porch watching me watch for my mom. He always seems to know what’s wrong. He’s like my swing: safe and always waiting. My tears drop onto my grandpa’s shirt just like they drop on the swing’s rope when I realize my mom’s not coming again. The swing is like my grandfather. They never let me fall, and someday when one won’t be here, maybe both will be gone, but for now my swing is my shadow.

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