His was dark at his house thank god. He stalked slowly through the overgrown weeds in the front yard, his boots sinking into the marshy mud. The tire swing was swaying slightly in the wind. He remember sitting there when he when he was little. He'd unfasten the screws on the screen of his window and crawl through at the latest hours of the night and just sit and listen to the quiet. John walked over to the swing and placed a hand on the fraying yellow rope. He looked up at the grooves his many silent nights of swinging made. He remembered swinging so high he could almost reach the top branch of the tree. He'd think, just a little bit higher, a little bit higher and maybe and maybe I'll reach it. But he never did. John slowly turned and sat lightly on the wooden plank. He hoped it would hold him. He used to be on it everyday but that was like 70 pounds ago. He had both his hands parallel, fastened to the rope above his head. His dad built this for him. A long time ago. He was 5. And he just thought it was the greatest thing he'd ever seen. His dad spent all but 10 minutes putting it together. But John didn't notice. He was 5. And 10 minutes or 10 hours weren't that different. What really mattered was who made it. Even at 5, John remembered how much he knew it meant. His father wasn't like he was now back then. He would sometimes play with him even. He would be a monster, growling and meandering towards him like Frankenstein and John would run away laughing and screaming and go hide in his closet or under his bed with a smile on his face, heart racing. And his father would appear, and poke his head under the drooping patchwork blankets of his bed and yell boo. And then he would squeal and dart from under the bed and run out his bedroom door in search for another hiding spot, knowing his father would always find him. Never considering that maybe after a while, he might stop looking.
John rested his head against the tattered rope and closed his eyes. He tried to let his self go back. Go back to when things were okay. When his father used to pull his white plastic chair out of the garage and set it in front of the swing and laugh as John swung, pulling leaves off the branches when he reached the edges of the tree. He would try so hard to reach that top branch and show his father he could. But he could only reach the leaves.
He smiled remembering. Why couldn't things have stayed like that? But was it really okay then? When did it start going down hill? When did things start slipping? What if things were already starting to get bad? Was that why he built it? The swing. Because he was guilty? Because he knew things were getting bad. He remembered his dad only sat out here with him and watched him a few times. And then he just stopped. And then he wouldn't play monster with him anymore. John didn't understand. But he'd still ask him anyway. And every time was 'no, I'm sorry'. And then after a while it was just 'no', and then 'NO!' and then finally it was 'NO!' with a smack to the side of his face. And then John stopped asking.
John accidentally let a tear slip down the side of his face. But he quickly wiped it off with sleeve of his denim jacket. Even though he was alone he couldn't cry. He just didn't do that. He couldn't. He opened his eyes and saw his empty yard. He saw the brown faded paint splotches on the side of the house. He saw the decaying birdbath in the corner engulfed by weeds, and the engine from his father's old car rusted and chipping, a multitude of creatures living underneath it. He saw the spot where his father used to sit in that plastic chair. He saw the sign he made with him nailed the tree that said 'Johns swing'. He saw the cracks in the cement from the earthquake when he was 6 and his dad got mad that they didn't have enough money to pay to get it fixed, so it just stayed like that. He saw the crack in the glass from when he was 10 and his father threw that plate at his mothers head when she said something nasty to him, but he missed when she ducked into the corner. He saw the dent in the front door from when he shoved him into it after he heard that John had broken the lamp in the living room when he was 14. He saw a bit of dried brown paint, seeping out from under the garage door. He pulled up his checkered shirt and looked at the scar of a cigar burn on the inner part of his arm. It didnt matter how many times or how long he stared at it, it wasnt going to go away. He reached his hand up to to his ear and found a very familiar small little dimond earing. He abruptly yanked his sleeve down and then quickly backed way up on the swing so he was all the way on his toes. He let go and went sailing into the air. He pushed. Higher. He kept reaching. He'd fly back and then lurch forward. Just a few inches away. Lunging. Reaching. Just a little bit higher. Just a couple centimeters. His hands grasping, desperately. His fingers extending as far as they could possibly go, leaping from the palm of his hand, knuckles turning white. And then finally. The tips of his finger felt the rough wood of the top branch of his tree. They wrapped around the edge for only a moment, before he silently slung backwards, towards the ground. He swayed for a bit, completely still, before slowly coming to stop. And then he sat in the quiet for a while. Just like when he was little. Except this time was different.
He sat in the quiet for the longest time, before he got up, a smile entraced at the corners of his mouth. He silently walked to the driveway, unhuried, down the street. And he didnt look back. And you could see a faint glimmer behind his hair, near his right ear as he walked into the white glow of the street lamps.
