and I just don’t want my particular life, and also the sky is depressing me,
and there is this old swing set out here that my dad made for me when I was a kid.”
“I must see this old swing set of tears immediately,” he said. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes.”
I stayed in the backyard because Mom was always really smothery and concerned when I was crying,
because I did not cry often, and I knew she’d want to talk and discuss whether I shouldn’t consider adjusting my medication,
and the thought of that whole conversation made me want to throw up.
It’s not like I had some utterly poignant, well-lit memory of a healthy father pushing a healthy child
and the child saying higher higher higher or some other metaphorically resonant moment.
The swing set was just sitting there, abandoned, the two little swings hanging still and sad from a grayed plank of wood,
the outline of the seats like a kid’s drawing of a smile.
Behind me, I heard the sliding-glass door open. I turned around.
It was Augustus, wearing khaki pants and a short-sleeve plaid button-down.
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