The Swing

noah-silliman-202795-unsplashWe watched as you bolted the iron pieces together, drove each leg a foot into the earth. The seat, a slab of wood, hung from industrial chains that left our hands oily, or with an orange coat, depending on how recently you’d cleaned them. You liked to grab the poles to show us how the frame never shuddered, to tell us it would always be here.

25 years later and it stands still. I walk by somebody else’s garden, remembering my metallic hands, and how my split ends brushed the grass as the clouds swayed.

Published on Micro Madness for National Flash Fiction Day NZ, June 2018

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