Across from my house, like a neighbor, there is a plain, wooden swing tied with ropes to a tree above it. The tree branches stretch out like fingers on a hand- the hand being the tree's sturdy trunk.
During an after-school lunch break, I saw the swing rock back and forth from the wind. Though instead of wobbling back and forth in the hesitant breeze, this swing was swinging perfectly up and down flawlessly. It was as if a child were in it, attempting to climb higher and higher into the sky, as if he or she could then manage to soar above the clouds, too young to understand that such a thing is not yet possible.
However, there was no child in it. It was merely carried by the wind, yet it seemed as if a ghost child was occupying it.
It was a neighboring ghost child's swing.
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