Swinging in the Air

Daily Prompt: Shake it Up
You’re 12 years old. It’s your birthday. Write for ten minutes on that memory. GO.


Being twelve years old is a blur in my memory. In growing up I don’t remember a birthday being celebrated. My mother died when I was five years old. Father was busy all the time. He was rarely home. My older brother would be out most of the time.

I had a lonely childhood. I spent my time on a swing in our backyard. I dreamt of becoming an astronaut as I swung to and fro. For company I had comics and books.

There is a distant memory of our next door neighbor. I remember, early in the morning rushing to our neighbor, (before leaving for school) with a comb in hand so that she could do my hair. I spent my weekends at her home.

Years later she got my address and visited me. I was so glad to see her. I had plans to visit her back. She died suddenly of a heart attack, and the only thing I did was to attend her funeral.

Sorry! I only remember books and my swing.

Swinging in the Air

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