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There’s this swing in the yard of the abandoned house on the corner of two cross streets you’ve never heard of.
I couldn’t tell you the type of tree in which it hung from
Or the color of the rope
I walked past this swing twice a day,
Always aware of it being there,
But never really noticing.
I looked, but I didn’t see.
I took comfort in this swing, knowing it was always there.
Solid. Sturdy, stable.
And although the seasons passed and the tree’s lining the block grew leaves and shed them
The swing never changed.
And then one day after summer vacation
The swing was gone.
The abandoned house was replaced by an ugly modern house, practically three doorknobs away from being finished.
I stopped and watched the construction workers on their lunch break,
Staring at the empty spot in the yard where the tree and the swing used to be.
In its place was a fountain far too extravagant for the house.
It didn’t fit.
But I suppose the swing didn’t fit with the abandoned house either.
When you think of swings, you think of children.
I wondered when the last time that swing had been swung on.
And then I felt sad. And mad. Not at the workers who were only following orders,
But at myself for walking past that swing every damn day and not even knowing what color the rope was.
I could’ve hopped the fence and swung on that swing. Even once.
But I didn’t.
I decided to take another route to school from then on.