The Swing Still Hangs in the Garden.

The old garden behind my childhood home is silent now. The grass grows wild, the flowers bloom without anyone appreciating them, and the color of the fence has faded in years of sun and rain. But one thing remains — the swing.

It still hangs from the thick branch of an ancient neem tree, the ropes scattered here and there, the wooden seat worn smooth by time. The wind now gently sways it, as if it remembers the laughter that once echoed in this void.

I come back here sometimes, standing at the edge of the garden, hands in my pockets, just looking at that swing. It reminds me of a simpler time — of innocence, of joy, of a little boy who believed the world was full of magic.

That boy was me.

My father built that swing for me when I was about seven years old. I watched him work in the summer heat, his shirt damp with sweat, his strong hands carefully tying the ropes, making sure it would stay secure. When he was finished, he lifted me onto the seat, gave me a slight push, and said, “Fly high, my son.”

And I did.

I spent endless afternoons on that swing. It became my ship, my rocket, my flying horse. I would close my eyes and feel the breeze on my face, soaring over forests and oceans, chasing dreams that no one else could see.

Sometimes, my mother would sit nearby, reading or sewing, smiling at my enthusiasm. My little sister would clap her hands, eagerly awaiting her turn. Those were golden days, filled with sunshine, laughter, and love.

But time has a way of moving faster than we expect.

The years passed. I grew taller, and the swing became much smaller. I had school, friends, then work. The garden grew increasingly quiet. My parents grew older. The swing remained, although it was rarely used.

Then came the day I left home — for college, then for work in another city. Meetings became fewer, phone calls fewer. Life kept me busy chasing goals, making money, building a future.

And all this time the swing stood.

When I returned many years later — after my father passed away, when my mother moved in with my sister — I went into the garden and there it was. The swing, still hanging. The ropes are strong despite their age. The seat, even though the weather is hot, is still stable.

I sat on it, as I had sat on it as a child. The wood sounded familiar, the rustling of the ropes like an old song. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, I was seven again. I could hear my father's voice, see my mother's smile, feel the endless summer breeze on my face.

The swing has not forgotten me. It has waited all this time, preserving my memories.

Now I spend time in this garden every time I come. I don’t swing as high as I used to – I am old now, and my bones remind me of that – but I sit, and I remember.

I think about how life moves on, but some things remain rooted, waiting for us to return.

The swing still hanging in the garden is more than wood and rope. It is a symbol. A reminder of childhood, of family, of moments that shaped me. It is a silent guardian of the past, asking for nothing, giving everything.

When I have children of my own, I will bring them here. I will show them the swing, tell them its story. Maybe I will fix the ropes, polish the seat and give it new life. And maybe, one day, they will sit on it and feel the same magic that I once did.

The world changes. People grow, move on, say goodbye. But the swing in the garden still hangs - waiting, swaying lightly in the wind, carrying the echoes of all who have come before.

And as long as that happens, I know that a part of me will always belong to that garden, to that swing, to the days when life was simple and every push towards the sky felt like flight.