A Little Adventure

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Laughter's Wish

I sat on the swing. Back and forward gently swaying under the full moon. As a child, I used to pump my feet to push the swing, but I was no child. Not anymore. Back then the wind embraced me as I raised for the sky against my friends.

And then those days grew like the trees in the park, and one day I found myself here at this swing with my own child. Pushing against their back to push the swing. As they grew, sitting next to them while they showed off their own style. Higher and higher laughing, "Mommy, look at how high I can go!"

Laughing all the time.

How I wished I could hear their laugh again.

If I sat here long enough, the other children would come around. Their laughs would gently tickle in to fill the void in my being.

On this night, I could hear them chattering as they filled the streets outside the park. Tonight was a night of costumes and candy. Joy for all the parents and children who weren't me.

Oh how I wished I could hear that laugh. That high pitched shrieking laugh that always made me cover my ears back then.

The swing next to me gently swayed with the wind much like my own throne, and red leaves fluttered down around us to create a majestic carpet.

Little feet darted across the leaves scattering them in a flurry like the sun fighting the oncoming darkness, but falling to the night every day.

Ahh, come little children, come swing with me.

They ran past me, their eyes on the prize of the slide. Costume capes billowed out making the out to be the super heros they pretended to.

One, two. They slid silently down it. Three, four. Mouths wide open as if in silent screaming laughter. The fifth one down the slide wore a mask that covered the mouth, and ran after them with arms outstretched.

Not a sound could be heard. Not the screeching laughter. Not the gentle laughter. How I wished I could hear that noise that drove me so insane!

One came over toward my swing, and I jumped off to give them the swing.

They didn't even look at me or thank me as they ran past!

Higher and higher they soared, pumping their legs in silent joy. Another kid ran up and opened their mouth as if yelling at them.

A girl with unbound brown curls bouncing around her face jumped off at the highest point and landed solidly on her feet. Her hands went to her hips and her chin went up in a proud display or her strength.

A small tiny boy was about to run into me! I tried to jump to the right, but he hit me, and went through me not even noticing how he fractured my body to get through me. A short piece of a scream rang through my silent world. How rude! Did mother's not teach their children manners these days?

My left legs was so frayed now. I sighed and moved toward the proud girl coaching her friend on the swing. I just needed a little laughter. A little joy. The laughter of my child.

The girl's shoulder was so tiny, but larger than my child's ever was. I touched it, and I could hear, "Pump those legs harder if you ever want to see my sky!"

Her voice, her tiny joy and pride. My legs slowly stitched up. If my child would come back. I just wanted to see them one last time.

The girl collapsed on the ground breaking my contact with her. I didn't like this. I didn't want this. I just wanted to see them again.

I looked down at the girl in a puddle at my feet, her friend hurrying over to check on her. How long had I been like this? How long had I leeched off these children's emotions?

But I had to. I was here to see them. I could feel them, hold them in my arms, and rock them.

The children all gathered around the girl, and I ambled over to the swing and sat down, watching as they walked away. The wind gently rocked my swing, and I kept my vigil. One day I would find them. One day my forgotten child would be back, and I could experience peace. One day my wish to hear their laughter would be fulfilled.

The swing swayed in the wind. The moon lit up the park. The children were gone. Grown up. The laughter was forgotten. One day, I would hear their laughter again and remember it's sweet piecing note.


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