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I sat on that swing. The one over there, by the tree. It was smaller then. Like me. The tree, I mean.
It’s a little bit busted that swing. Not like that other one, just there. The one with the queue of children. No, the one by the tree has been a little bit broken for years. Like me.
One day, as I was sitting on the swing quietly trying not to cry, a man approached. “You look like you need a hand” he said. We played for a little while, and he pushed me.
In some ways Richard (that was his name) took my mind off of my other worries. And when I think of him now years later, it isn’t always with hatred.
I can kind of sympathise with him now. I know he was broken, in his own way. Trapped in a childhood that never finished properly. Like me.
One day, I know I’ll see a young boy sitting all alone on that swing. And I’m afraid I’ll do what Richard did and become his “special” friend.
Why do I keep coming back here?
I can’t fix the break in me.
But I can fix that bloody swing.
Then maybe the cycle will end.