Fireflies danced around in the dark as the swing slowly swung to and fro; lonesome. He was gone, but he couldn't leave him alone.
Meadow
Zo
He needed to stop coming back here. This place where haggard memories haunted, spinning the very fibers of reality into a blanketed web of despair. Weeds and grass tickled at his bare legs, the cool breeze of the evening tousling his long red hair. Summer was at its peak, bringing with it the life and music of nighttime.
As kids they had come here every night. The world had seemed so big back then; endless with impossible what if's and joyous surprises with every new answer. They could have been anything they wanted; only they ran out of chances.
He loved the smell of the meadow in the summer. It was fresh, new, and endless. Maybe it was because he was smaller back then, but it had felt so vast back then. Now it was just a field of grass.
The tree was in the very center of the meadow, they had sworn it was. Back then the tree was the center of their universe, but now he thought it was slightly towards the back of the field. He didn't know why he kept coming here. He felt odd; out of place and yet drawn to the small swing they had set up in the center of their world.
A plank of wood and a rope – it was all they ever needed. Blissful summer nights; the world stopped for them back then. He sat next to the swing, staring up at the sky. Stars began to show, pricking at the darkening sky with idle luminescence. Once, they were brighter, but now they looked tired, shining only because they had to – no longer wanting.
Fireflies crawled out of their homes, slowly coming to life. Beetles hummed and crickets chirruped, no longer the symphony it once was. He listened, tried to remember how everything sounded back then, but could barely register a voice. That voice had been following him, stalking with innocent intent. Words laced with honey set on endless replay.
The fireflies danced recklessly in the dark as the swing slowly swung, to and fro; lonesome. Emitting a mantra of noise that drilled into his mind, creak – laughter; creak – cricket song; creak – "I'll always be here."
And so would he, he supposed. The grass swayed in the wind as he watched it, focused only on how it bent slightly, how the fireflies scattered and regrouped. The rhythmic creaking only a background noise compared to the armies of ageless sounds that whirled in his mind. His name would never sound as sweet as it did, the night would never be a song if you listened hard enough, and the wind doesn't sound like it's talking through trees.
He glanced at the swing then looked back to the grass. It was eerie and sad – the little boy that sat upon that rickety old piece of wood and rope. They could have been anything they had wanted. He had wanted to be a fireman; foolish of him. They ran out of chances.
He lay back in the grass, staring at the fading back of the boy. He wondered if it still thought all those innocent things, about crickets and stars and how the wind talked. He wondered why it was there, spreading the feeling of loneliness and woe just with its presence. Didn't it have someplace to be – didn't he?
They told each other all sorts of secrets back then, silly little things that were treated like delicate life and death matters. He found out some of them were, but only too late. Now he was ignored, as if he wasn't sitting right there in his favorite patch of grass and weeds next to the swing. Maybe that's why he felt so hurt. Maybe that's why he no longer cared.
The crickets sang louder and it looked up to the sky as always. Its blue eyes like the day's sky, but jaded only for the night. He didn't understand why it would keep such a promise as it had. He didn't understand himself.
If he lied still and closed his eyes, he used to be able to feel the Earth spin. Now he felt it swallowing him whole. Why did everything have to change? He looked to the boy, its grip on the swing ropes. Why would it still love the world that had taken it away from it? To be taken away from the cricket song, the stars and moon; away from the talking wind and babbling brook; away from him.
He felt the hot tears slide down the creases of his eyes, into his hair. The boy didn't notice, couldn't notice. It had been so innocent, with a honey laced voice and a love of night. Their chances had died at the same time, only he lived and didn't deserve such torture.
Why did it keep coming here on these summer nights covered with a blanketed sorrow, no longer what it had been. The world went on without it, forgetting it. He could never forget it, even if he wanted to. This had been the center of their universe, where they dreamed the dreams of impossibilities and created plans to overcome them with twigs drawing in the dirt.
He needed to stop coming back here, this place with haggard memories that took control of him, telling him of all that he had but had no longer. The boy on the swing sighed, a hollow sound, like the wind. They were going to be together forever, friends until the end.
The end had come so soon, too soon. And so he kept coming back here, just as it did, every summer night, just like then. Only now it was different.
He needed to stop coming back here.
He reached into his pocket, tears flowing down their predetermined path. But then again – he looked to the fading boy – he could stay forever, too.