THE TIRE SWING IS GONE
The tire swing is gone.
The knotted rope as well.
We haven’t been for a picnic there since that day.
No more Frisbee. No more croquet. No more nights with the telescope just hoping to see the rings of Saturn.
David was eleven. I was only seven.
But I still remember.
I still visit.
I have to.
It is the only place that I can still hear his voice.
I can still see David in the uppermost branches … Shouting down to us that he was Superman.
But he wasn’t.
I think that I believed that he was Superman, too.
Written for Sunday Photo Fictioneers. Requirements: Using the photo prompt, create a flash fiction story of 200 words. (This one was only 100.)