Swings by Hannah Stevens

It’s for the best, he says, and you say, I know. I know.  You’re packing boxes: tomorrow you leave. It’s windy and you hear the chains of the swing set rattle in the breeze. It’s easy to imagine that he’s still here.
That night you go to bed with his teddy-bear and a t-shirt he wore the week he died. These are the pieces of him left that you can hold.
In the morning, you take one last look at the garden. You notice the worn spots under the swings and how the grass is beginning to grow back. 


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