It was only a week ago her children had mastered the art of swinging. Regret for teaching them, no. Regret for not being here for them now, yes. She picked up her obituary. Lisa Moren, Mother of two, dies at 34.
She had ripped off a slab from a notepad and grabbed a pen from the desk drawer. The pressure built as the palm of her hand laced with perspiration. Not again, she thought. As she had already written, “I will”, each bump of the m, dot on the i, curl of the s’s, and y-o-u, the paper had dampened with another drop, “It had nothing to do with you.” Completed. The weight of the pen felt like she was attempting to write with a 10-pound dumbbell. Her grasp of it loosened. The page was halfway empty, and she couldn’t come up with any word or sentence to ease her pain. Her eyes drooped as her mouth crept open. Bang! She opted for a staring contest with the paper. The pen landed on the table; her head following with it.
She lifted herself up and walked to the back window. They were giggling on the swings facing one another. Their laughter shaped her bliss. She rushed to the swing-set to go help push them. Standing behind Andrew, she propped her arms up. As he swung backwards she gave it her all and pushed forwards. Her hands went straight through him.