Stories on a Swing

I could’ve sworn his youth was slowly, yet surely, swirling right in front of his eyes. He talked with an unchallenged certainty; his wisdom was something that needed succession. And I wasn’t listening much. Instead I stared at him, sitting on the old swing, trying to feel his words as they lined across him one by one, each bearing years worth of his life. On that fine afternoon, he told me the stories of his life and I quite liked it.