Harbor
thirteen; Kanga (swing)
She keeps only one book.
It is not a large book, and it is not a small book–it is comfortably sandwiched in-between, taking up space yet not consuming it. In it she places everything: her heart, her tears, her dedication and her hopes. It all goes in there, pressed into the valuable pages. She does not (and will not) show it to anybody else, for in it she places everything. In it is her deepest self, and she has to be strong until destiny is safely shaped–that's what she tries to believe, but it is rather hard to put trust into anything when she rocks, swing, swing, the still figure of her only little boy. She waits for his heart to return, swing, swing. Every day she watches out the window, rocking in her chair, swing, swing, holding onto her little son, waiting for the obscured figures of a duck, a dog and a boy. But a key most importantly. And a heart, a tiny little heart, fluttering like the wind.
So she reads her not-big, not-little book to her sleeping son–at least she pretends he's sleeping–and tells him all her wishes. It is her wish book, the only book she is selfish enough to possess and foolish enough to pursue. She only shares it with her son as she watches the light-hearted adventures of Christopher Robin, Pooh and all their friends along the edge of the woods through her window. No one comes inside anymore by Kanga's request. She promises to send Roo out as soon as he's better, urging them to run along. They had given her worried side glances, but nodded and did as her word suggested.
Kanga closes her book and the swing, swing of her rocking chair stops.
"And he never came out to play, "