I don’t think too often about Sarah.
Some thoughts are best left alone. Think about them too often and you end up haunting yourself. End up becoming your own tormentor.
Sarah was eight when she drowned.
A hot summer day by the river thirty years ago.
My father had put together a makeshift swing which swung out over the water in a great loop. A piece of sturdy rope was all it was really, slung over the outrstetched branch of a willow tree.
We’d played there all summer, whooping and cheering as we lunged out over the water, daring each other to swing faster and higher. To make intrictate loops and twists with each leap.
Posted on February 25th, 2006 under Fiction. Tags: Fiction, Short Story. Comments: None