I stopped at the sight of it.
The seat was thick and slightly uneven, suspended from sturdy ropes.
I approached it slowly and touched the wood.
It wasn’t Dad’s original swing. That had been lost years ago.
But it was unmistakably modeled after it.
“Did you build this?”
Ethan nodded.
“With my own hands.”
I ran my palm across the seat.
“You built a swing?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’ve seen you assemble furniture. You once put a bookshelf together backward.”
“That was one time.”
“It leaned for six months.”
“The floor wasn’t level.”
I laughed.
He smiled, then looked up into the oak tree.
“Your dad would’ve noticed if I got the ropes wrong.”
I sat on the swing.
For a moment, I closed my eyes.
I could almost hear Dad behind me.
“Hold tight, sweetheart.”
I could almost feel the gentle push of his hands against my back.
