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{my picture}

I remember, when I was 4, my parents got my brother and I swings. He was given a green frog swing. While I, I was given a beautiful, blue, butterfly swing. And instantly fell in love.

Some people had dolls, hot wheel cars, etc. Me? I had my swing. I would swing everyday—every chance I got. Back and forth and back and forth. I would beg my daddy to push me higher, higher, HIGHER. I dreamt of touching the sky. Soaring on my prized butterfly; all the way to the clouds.

It was my own personal diary. As silly as that sounds. When I felt overwhelmed, stressed, anxious, I’d fly—swing—till all was better. I’d think everything out, talk everything out, figure everything out. Whether I needed to calm down or take a break from reality—my swing was there.

An inanimate object that meant so much to me. And up until last December I swung daily. As you can see from the picture: my adored butterfly has a “broken wing”. Nearly 10 years old, it’s a wondered it lasted so long. When it broke I remember feeling a deep sort of sadness. Not the kind of crying-Icantbelieveyoubrokeit-Youmonster sadness. The deep sort that pulls at your heart. I looked sadly at it and thought: I’m going to miss you.

Though nothing can compare. I know I used it for some great years. And I’m internally greatful for that little escape. My favorite toy, that meant more to me then anything, had flown away to the clouds like I use to dream of. And I know I’ll be okay with out it.