The Swing

“I did all my homework at that swing,” I said pointing at the old tire swing hanging in the open field.  “And wrote all my stories for the paper there.” 

The tire swing looked as if no one had used it in years.  When I still lived at home, I had tried to oil the tire a few times to keep it from breaking and cracking in the sun.  I once even talked my dad into letting me paint the rope yellow one summer, but afterwards I decided I liked the natural look a little better. 

“Did you ever build a treehouse in any of those trees at the edge of the field?”  My husband asked looking to the edge of our property. 

“Ha, well.  That’s a long story.  Henry and I started building one before the neighbors tore it down.”  As I continued the story of our feud with the Smith family down the road and why we thought they tore down the treehouse, Tom and I headed back to the car we had rented for the weekend.  He gasped and said “I can’t believe it!” in all the right places. 

I wished now I could remember their names to see how they were doing, but all I could remember was the huge, drooling dog named Toad. 

As we got back into the car, the yellow police tape around the mailbox caught my eye.  I couldn’t believe it was still there all those years after the fire. 


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