• We sat on the old blue swing, and it let out its usual welcome creak. Yet this time, it was under toned with sadness. The same undertone that every voice, sound, sight, and thought has had for the past year. Of course we tried to ignore it, but the cloud of its power only grew stronger and stronger to the point where now, a week away, we could barely breathe. In fact if you thought about it enough, it had dulled the colors of everything around giving it a gray hue. The tree in front of us went from a vibrant green and brown, to looking like a white glaze was painted on each piece of bark and leaf. The cherries once a shocking red now dulled to barely being noticed. The cement under our feet seemed ignored, as dirt gathered in its small groves tainting its innocence. Even the swing, though of course dulled by age seemed to turn more gray than blue, the chains rustier. Maybe this was why the familiar Eh Ur Eh Ur of the small movements it made seemed louder and more distinct. Then again it could have always been the unbearable silence of us. Neither dared to say a word, and I suppose it was because we wore so focused on burning this memory in our mind, us, best friends to the point we wore sisters, on this old swing on a hot summer day. I kicked a cherry off the cement. As it rolled making small jumps in the almost unnoticeable bumps, it seemed to leave a trail like it was ripping off a strip of paint, revealing the long forgotten old color. Taking away the cloud. I wanted to reach down and peel it off, to go underneath the cloud and feel truly happy without the hint of sorrow in the bottom of my heart. I didn't move. Yet the happiness seemed to spread upwards in a gust of wind, though the cloud did not deflate like a balloon it more so accepted the new air and the wound it came from. I could smell, taste, and hear it all. The smell of the burning wood that would waft from the backyard, and voices hushed by the distance full of joy and laughter. The taste of the freshly made smores, the marshmallows burnt from sitting in too long. I probably had to blow it out because it caught fire. Then as fast as that memory came by a new one emerged. A sadder one that existed just a few days ago. Her and I playfully shooing the dog away as it tried to eat the chocolate we left on tree stump. Her video camera set on night mode perched on the fence, as we sang songs from some old musical that had been playing in the house. I turned and laughed at the marshmallow bright against her dark hair, and as she tried to pull it out, she only added more white fluff.
    "I hate my dad" She said, and the memories floated away bringing me back to reality. The dullness had returned to the wound and any fresh air had floated to the top by now.
    "Don't say that...." I whispered and picked at a piece of peeling paint. Though that was the last thing I wanted to say, not like I actually hated her dad, but I wasn't exactly his biggest fan at the moment. Not like that concerned him, because it wasn't like anybody’s emotions concerned him. I lost my piece of paint in the forest of baby blue chips and brown splinters.
    Eh Ur Eh Ur Eh Ur
    The swing sang and I imagined it saying something like "He only wants what’s best for you" because that’s what all the older people are saying.