Hearts Left Behind Read Online Free Page A

hair - which had looked sandy
brown in the sunlight - seemed to grow darker as she approached.  She gave
me a reproachful stare that made it clear I had disappointed her.  As if
she had been looking for me to be evidence that all adults weren’t hopeless
bores.  That the love of going to the playground to rise, fall, climb,
slide, and spin did not have to die with youth.  I smiled and nodded
apologetically.  I had indeed disappointed her and it took her a moment to
recover.
    “Well,” she said, “what are you thinking about?”
    A good question without a good answer.  
I had come here to think about everything and nothing at all.  “I’m not
sure,” I finally replied.
    “Well that seems dumb.”
    I laughed out my reply.  “Well, yeah, I suppose
it does.”
    “I came here to swing.”  Then after a moment she
added, “I don’t think you came here to think.  I think you came here to
sit.”
    Suddenly tired, I rose from the bench to leave.
    “You know what?  You’re right.  Enough sitting.   It was nice talking to you.”
    As I started to walk away, she called out to me one
more time.
    “Hey, mister?”
    “Yes?”
    She blew a bubble and popped it with her pinky
finger.  “I’m just saying that if a person comes to the playground, maybe
they should swing or something. 
That’s all.”  Then she turned and climbed back onto her swing. 
    I picked that feather up off the ground , rose from the bench, and headed back to Grandpa and
Grandma’s where I did swing.
     
    That same old hushed feeling enveloped me as I settled
down into the porch swing on Grandpa and Grandma’s front porch.  This
swing has always been a special place for me and the rhythmic clanging of the
chains will always be my sound of summer.  It is a place to listen, to
look, to feel, and to find.
    Clankity -clank as I start to
rock and my summer sound sooths me with an echo of quiet memories as it always
has.  As a kid, I could sit for hours rocking here just watching the day
go by in whatever form it took.  I suppose every man has his thinking
spot, that one place he can go to tune out the noise of the world.  To contemplate and to be.   To get in touch with what is
within us and what surrounds us.  What we’re made of and what we’re part
of.  This has always been that place for me.  It’s not just a swing,
its therapy.
    Of course, I have to admit that as a kid I didn’t
always see it that way.  Usually, I wasn’t thinking therapeutic ,
I was thinking boring .  But I was a kid and that’s how kids define any
period of inactivity that lasts longer than eleven seconds.  You don’t
think I’m nourishing the soul , you think I
wish I had a twenty -eight cents to go buy a Jolly Good
Root Beer . 
    My first memory of this swing is also my first memory
of Charlie Skinner, my pre-Katie best
friend.  I was swinging in this very spot when Charlie came riding down
Third Street on the back of his dad’s bike licking a popsicle . 
We yelled hellos as they passed by and he said he’d come back later, but he
didn’t.  Turns out Charlie had gotten his shoelaces caught in the spokes
of his dad’s bike and mangled his foot pretty good.  Of course, not
knowing this at the time, I just waited in anger.  I swung on this very
swing and waited for him to come back.  Swinging back, swinging forth, chains clanking against each other in the most pleasant of
summer sounds.  Nice breeze blowing in my face.  Back
and forth, clankity -clank.   Cars passed
by every few minutes but the trees shushed them quiet.  Eventually, my
anger faded.  After awhile on this swing, you can’t really be angry about
anything.  See?  Therapy.

The Father Below
    For dinner Grandma made meatloaf, baked potatoes,
green beans, and a Jell-O salad.  I ate fast so I could start cleaning the
kitchen while she and Grandpa finished eating.  I was anxious to be alone,
so after putting the last plate into the dishwasher I said goodnight and