I watch my father tear my swing set down,
Standing on a chair to see out the window,
From my upstairs room.
in the effort of pulling up the polls,
The one remaining swing swung.
Though years had passed since I had loved it,
A part of me felt the loss.
The flecks of paint from where a childish hand had outlined my name,
And the squeaking sound from where the lose boards rubbed.
As I saw it in pieces,
I realized that it was never just a swing set,
It was a pirate ship,
A time machine,
A princess’s tower,
A home for the odd assortment of toys,
And memories.
Each board use to hide the rigging of ships,
Or buttons that when pushed could send one to the moon.
The swings where vines in a jungle,
They where airplanes,
Or life boats lost at sea.
I watched my father hoist up the last remaining beams,
And load them into his truck,
How could that car every move under all the weight?