Father

The rusted swing set creaked in the humid Arkansas air, a melody as familiar as my own heartbeat. Daddy, once a giant in my eyes, sat hunched on the worn wooden seat, his face etched with lines deeper than the Mississippi. Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy like molasses.
Years had woven a chasm between us. His booming laughter, a cornerstone of my childhood memories, had been replaced by a cough that rattled his thin frame. Anger, an unwelcome visitor I didn't recognize, flared in my chest. Where was the man who taught me to shimmy up the pecan tree, whose lap was a refuge from scraped knees and bruised feelings?

Then, a flicker of movement. A hand, gnarled and scarred, reached out, fingers tracing the faded paint on the swing. A ghost of a smile played on his lips. In that moment, I saw the little boy who once dreamed of soaring like a hawk, the boy who’d grown weary under the weight of life. The anger softened, replaced by a tenderness I hadn't known existed. With a sigh, I pushed the swing, its rusty cry a lullaby sung by the past.