The swing in my backyard, fashioned by my father from old rope and a spare car tire, sways in the Autumn breeze. I imagine two pairs of stubby legs dangling over its rubber edges.  The music of laughter coloring the air, arms extended towards each other as if the world lay in their fingertips. Hands interlocked. Eyes blossoming stars, as if the other’s mere existence was enough to keep each other warm. Missing-toothed smiles illuminated golden by the afternoon light.

In reality, only ghosts flirt on the empty tire-swing. The swing floats pitifully mid-air and hisses, its unfilled intestines starved of oxygen. It hasn’t been pumped in years. Hand-sized sneaker prints, caked in mud, are immortalized on its slick-black rubber skin. They are almost as old as I am. The sound of silence pierces the air with its hollow gaze. Wind drubs at my skin, stealing any warmth until I’m left numb. Maybe it’s not the wind. Maybe it’s something else.

* * *

Alena. In Greek, the name means ‘light.’ And she was, a perfect goddess of purity and grace.
But the name means so much more, holds so much more substance and history, than a word can describe.
“You must be the new kid.” Alena’s third grade hand waved in my face. Her two front teeth jutted askew across her upper lip, and her pigtails jumped at every syllable she spoke. Her tongue danced atop the rainbow spirals of a lollipop in her left fist. Her eyebrows slanted into a question mark. “Wanna share?”
Alena had a loud spirit and a smile that held enough zest to last a lifetime, yet her voice was soft and sweet, like the color of honey. “What’s your name?”
“Peter.”
Alena frowned. It was more of a pout, a puppy-dog scowl. “That’s boring.” She paused and licked at her lollipop, which was beginning to lose its color. “Like Peter Pan?”
“I guess.” My eyes lowered to the yellow ticks of the street.
“My name’s Alena. My parents say it means light, so I must be special. What does your name mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“The kids at school think you’re weird. They say you don’t talk much.” Heat rushed to my face, and not from the late spring afternoon. She shrugged. “But I think you’re cool.” She smiled. The emerald of her eyes, the rare shade of a four-leaf-clover, welcomed my presence. “Wanna have a play-date at my place? My mom’s baking chocolate chip cookies.” I didn’t grin, at least not on the outside. “Come on. Why are you just standing there?” I stood still, holding in an exhale. She laughed. “Oh, come on. I don’t bite,” Alena stuck out her tongue. She pressed her right hand into my left, placed her sucked-on lollipop in my right. Saliva dripped across its spherical surface, onto my skin. But I was too happy to care. I had made my first friend.
Together, we were the perfect rebellion.

* * *

It was the midst of winter, in the midst of town, in the midst of the local park. We were sprawled across a park bench, nibbling on soft pretzels (that were way too salty) in our mitten-snug hands. Alena’s arms reclined across the top of the bench, as if she were a king and the bench was her throne. Her legs lay wide open, defying the cold and taking up as much leg-room as a man on a New York City subway. Our breaths crystallized into vapor in the frigid-blue air.
Alena’s jacket pocket vibrated. The sound of the Kim Possible theme song crackled in the air. I cringed, and not from her debateable ringtone choice.
“Hello?”
Eyes flitted to the floor, I started to count the grains of salt on the iced sidewalk.
“Cindy?”
Two-Billion-Five…
“Now?” Alena’s eyes darted to my face, then ahead at a slew of barren trees.
Three-Quintillion-Quadruple Infinity…
“I can’t.” She breathed deeply, as if in relief. Her exhale froze mid-air into a cloud of white smoke.
“I care about him.” My cheeks, bitten raw by the wind, blushed rose-red. I couldn’t hear the other end of the phone, but I knew what, or rather who, the topic of conversation was about.
“What’s more important than spending time with you?” Alena laughed. Nervous perhaps, but resilient, unwavering. She turned her jade-eyed gaze towards me. “What’s more important than spending time with my best friend?”
This time, I didn’t try to hide my smile.
A mother juggling a triple-scoop ice cream cone and baby stroller passed us by. One of her ice cream scoops toppled onto her baby girl’s face, creating a loud splat! The baby screeched, a feral cry uttered from the deepest depths of her tiny throat. The mother wouldn’t have to worry about her daughter finding a job. She would make a very useful addition to the CIA’s torture department.
Alena grabbed a napkin from a nearby street vendor and wiped away the frozen, but delicious, mess from the baby’s face. The mother thanked her profusely, then carried on her separate way.
“Wait here,” Alena glanced across the street, and before I could speak, she darted away.
A cluster of passerbys stopped and stared at a figure in the distance. I knew Alena was back before I saw her, because only she had the quirk to amass a crowd to stare at her like that. She skipped across the ice in her neon boots, chanting “Peter!” and “We got ice cream!” Suddenly a half-dozen pair of eyes turned towards me. My eyes shifted towards the pools of salt in the sidewalk again.
Nine-Vigintillian-Quindecillion-Infinity…
Alena laughed, commanding the air with her music. She plopped down beside me and shoved a double-scoop of ice cream into my hand. Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. I grinned. I was a simple boy (still am); bring me ice cream, and I’ll love you forever.
A dollop of ice cream stuck to my nose. Alena nudged over in her gray sweatpants. hHr tongue traced across the bridge of my nose, lapping up the frozen treat.
“Eww,” I laughed.
“Shut up.” She punched my shoulder gently. “Ice cream’s ice cream.”
I smiled. Alena Goodall’s were hard to find in this world.

* * *

The dramatic noises of Mario Cart (I forgot to turn off the TV) blasted through my patio window onto the grassy lawn. My sneakers crunched against the grass. Leaves of verdant tones baked to a crisp flame-orange from Autumn’s spell.
It was a slow Sunday afternoon, one of those days when you don’t feel like doing anything. The songbirds perched atop the proud oaks in my backyard decided to sleep for the day, lulled by the still air. Everything was slow and lethargic. It was exhausting.
Even Alena, a fireball who never stopped blazing, stifled a yawn as heat crawled in waves across the atmosphere. Our legs dangled lazily over the tire-swing, scratching and burning in the uncomfortable heat. The tire-swing spun around slowly, creaking across the thin tension of rope.
“I have something to tell you,” Alena half-yawned.
“Is it more beautiful than silence?” I was in a damp mood, mourning the fact that tomorrow was Monday.
“No, but it’s more interesting.” Alena blinked, a serious expression hidden in her eyes. They matched the lush green of the sun-soaked grass.
“Talk.”
Alena’s chin sunk into her neck. Her hands shifted awkwardly across her lap. “My mom’s struggled with lupus for the last few years.” I could hear her breaths, trying to stay controlled and even.
“And, um…” She looked up to meet my confused face. “My parents are thinking of moving south. The doctor said the winters here are too cold for someone with her condition.”
Silence filled the air, and it was definitely not beautiful.
“But, uh… I really don’t want to leave.” Alena’s voice was in-between a mumble and a whisper. I had never seen her this upset or heard her talk so quietly before.
“Do you have a choice?” My throat ached. I swallowed hard.
“I told them I don’t want to go, and um, they might consider it.”
Alena smiled, but a certain sadness hid behind it. I wanted so badly to believe her. Even though she had other friends, she always made time for me. Whenever they gossiped or talked about me when I wasn’t around, Alena defended me. You don’t know him like I do. Please keep your opinions to yourself. She was the size of a mouse but had the heart of a lion. She was a voice for the voiceless. She added direction and meaning to my life at a time when I was lost and worthless.
So I believed her.

* * *

“Happy birthday to you!” A set of jagged notes echoed across the windows. I imagined shards of shattered glass; Alena butchered the Happy Birthday song, incinerated it, and tore to shreds in one of the razor-sharp, demonic machines seen in horror films. She was definitely no Whitney Houston. We lounged across my bed and watched reruns of Spongebob, the perfect show to watch when bored, and munched on potato chips until our stomachs were heavy and our tongues flushed with the aftertaste of salt.
In second grade, my parents threw me a birthday party at Chuck-E-Cheese’s, despite my relentless pleas not to. A whopping five out of twenty-five students in my class showed up. It was pitiful and depressing, and the adults looked at me as if I were a wounded stray puppy. Even the iconic Chuck-E-Cheese mascot talked to me as if I were a baby or a pet. At the time, I was positive the party was a violation of the constitution, regarding the amendment of cruel and unusual punishment. I wonder if my parents felt something was wrong with me. I certainly did.
Laughing with Alena cross-legged across the bed, as sunlight struck her face to display a beautiful array of golden skin, I was happier than at any birthday I’d ever had. For once, the stars were aligned in my favor. But a heavy thought lurked in the gutters of my mind. I couldn’t bear the idea of it. Alena and I were a conversation’s distance apart, but soon, the distance between us could be states away. Maybe the stars were aligned - for a nanosecond, a sliver of the universe - in my favor before repositioning themselves in another direction.
As her bouncing steps reverberated across the stairs, I shoved the thought down my throat into the trenches of my mind. She smiled and said, “Happy Birthday,” thankfully not singing it. A large vanilla cake was propped across her arm. A lighter was held between her tongue, a box of matches in her right fist. A sharp crackle flickered as the blue glow of an ember danced across a pink candle.
“Make a wish,” Alena whispered.
I closed my eyes. I think we both knew what I wished for.
Later, she skipped upstairs again, this time with a wrapped box in her hand. My birthday present. I had told her I didn’t want anything, but she insisted anyway. You’re my best friend. Of course I need to give you a present. Tied to the midnight blue ribbons was a green balloon.
“Aren’t balloons awesome?” she asked. “I love watching them fly away.”
Gently, as not to ruin the wrapping paper, I opened my present. A glossy black phone, brand new and untouched, stared at me. “Jeez.” I said. “How much did this cost you?”
“That’s the first thing you think about?” She laughed. “How much it costs?” She untied the balloon. “I thought it was about time you got a phone. And now, we can talk to each other whenever we want.” She took the phone from my hand and punched in her number. “Aren’t you happy?” Alena’s eyes lit up into a bright jade.
“Yeah,” I smiled weakly. “I absolutely love it. You’re the best.” She giggled.
Later, after Alena left, I laid across my bed, the green balloon strapped to my right wrist. I love watching them fly away. I almost untied the string, let the balloon soar into the sky and disappear into the clouds. But I didn’t, overpowered by the fear of letting go, at the fear of watching it fly but never come back.

* * *

The first text I received from Alena was the last.
Plain brown eyes radiated by the glow of the phone screen, I pressed my face towards its artificial-blue haze in a manic addiction. I laid cross-legged across my bed, with my stomach pressed against the bedsheets and my elbows pointed towards my face. The same position I was in with Alena during my birthday. Except this was different. Much different.
As I stared at the single text she sent me, the length of a fully written letter, an eerie premonition overcame me. It crashed in waves against my heart, spoiled from the love I’d become so familiar with, and drowned it to pieces in its angry wake.
It was over a thousand words long. The grammar police would’ve thrown her in prison for all the mis-spelled words and words misplaced by autocorrect. I could hear the tears in her voice as I read the words that talked about her mother’s worsening condition and her doctor’s strong recommendation to move and how her father had secretly found a new job down south in Georgia, seven states away, and how she was going to miss me, and that she was too upset to see me in person, otherwise she’d have a breakdown, and that she’d call me everyday, and that way, we’d never be torn apart.
I wanted to believe her last words. But I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t anymore. And I thought to myself, this might be the last time you see her. Except I hadn’t even seen her. Only imagined her voice over a string of code assembled across cyberspace. I didn’t have the opportunity to hear her voice one last time, soft and alluring, or see her smile, warm as morning summertide, or remember our kinship, built upon years of lost memories.
Out of all the golden childhood moments in my life, one sticks out in my memory. I remember our first conversation, when I had just moved in to my new house in the strange land of New Jersey.
My name’s Alena. My parents say it means light, so I must be special. What does your name mean?
She was light. Pure light in human form, a ray of sunshine that shone through the winter in my soul and freed me from my prison of solitude. My entire life, I had waited for someone to notice me, to save me. And she saw. And she did.
At that moment, I had lost all the light in my life.

* * *

The tire-swing lurches in the faint Autumn breeze. Two sets of sneaker prints, painted from dried mud in late third-grade spring, are immortalized on its jet-black skin.
Alena and I text. We call sometimes, and my throat singes with longing for the face I’ll never see again. Her voice has become hoarse and whispery, and I imagine her with glass eyes and paper bones, not the Alena I once knew. Not the Alena I once loved.
They say there’s nothing quite like your childhood years. If that’s true, all mine are consumed by memories of Alena. Old vignettes replay in my mind. Her smile. Me learning how beautiful it is to laugh. I miss laughing with her. These moments play over and over again, like a movie that we wish could become reality. Sometimes, the happiest moments of life hurt the worst of all.
My past is dead. My future is haunted by the things we’ll never be, all that we’ll never become.
It’s late Autumn but my mind is stuck in the dead of winter. My future is something I don’t want to see, if it means a life of loneliness and quiet. Before Alena, I thought silence was the most beautiful thing in the world. After Alena, I knew her soul was. And even that has left me.
The tire-swing hums a sad lullaby of creaks and moans. It pirouettes in the wind, and I imagine two friends spinning on the swing, carefree and oblivious to the world around them. And I dream that someday, I’ll make another friend. We’ll spin around in circles until we’re dizzy, and we’ll hold our sides with laughter, and our cheeks will hurt from grinning too much. But dreams are dreams because they are not real. They never were, and they won’t change for me. Alena’s shoe marks blur with my own, the only memento I have of her.
With each passing day, the distance between us seems to grow greater. I hope that someday, I’ll meet someone as magical as her. I hope that someday, I’ll claim my summer again.
I wonder if she misses me as much as I miss her. I wonder if she’s moved on, if she’s found another friend in Georgia to talk with and sing the Happy Birthday song to.
The tire-swing in my backyard continues to spin by itself. Deep down,
I know that’s the way it always will be.