She sits waiting. Still. Being. Alone. Some leaves blowing in the wind, but she is still. Her head is heavy and she makes a puddle of tears. She wishes someone would push the swing. It hurts to raise her head. Too heavy. Too much. Then she remembers she knows how to do it alone. She remembers that her legs can move her. She remembers she has swung and done what she needed to do. The tears dry up – mud – sand – dust – gone… And so is she … gone from the lonely swing. She remembers it feels good pushing other’s on their swings. So she sits. Waiting. Not alone.