A Rock and A Hard Place

The attic smells like cedar and dust and the faint ghost of my mother’s perfume—something floral that never really suited her. The air’s thick enough to taste. I shouldn’t be up here yet. I told myself I’d only go through the boxes when I was ready, but grief makes a liar out of you.

The floorboards groan beneath me as I crawl between stacks of old holiday bins and cardboard marked in her careful handwriting—WINTER, PHOTOS, MISC. There’s one that catches my eye: SUMMER 2003.

My throat tightens. I sit cross-legged on the floor and lift the lid. Inside: brittle paper, an old friendship bracelet made of embroidery thread, and a Polaroid photo lying face-down.

When I turn it over, it’s me and Jesse on the swings. I can almost hear my mom’s voice behind the camera—“Hold still, girls!”—right before Jesse swung too high and we both shrieked with laughter.

God, we lived here in the summers. Popsicles melting faster than we could eat them, bare feet in the dirt, my mom on the park bench with a magazine she never actually read.

I trace the edge of the photo, thumb drifting over Jesse’s face. She’s frozen mid-laugh, sunlight caught in her hair.

“Ah, Jesse,” I whisper, smiling despite myself. “I wonder what kind of person you turned out to be.”

The words echo in the attic’s quiet.

She would’ve been thirty now, maybe married, maybe kids of her own. I picture her teaching them how to pump their legs on a swing, her laughter carrying across a park somewhere far from here.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and keep flipping through the box, the Polaroid still balanced on my knee. Under a few brittle envelopes, I find a folded newspaper clipping, yellowed at the edges. I smooth it out against my thigh, the paper soft as old cloth.

The headline blurs for a second before it settles:

LOCAL GIRL DIES IN PLAYGROUND FALL.

My chest tightens.

I read it. Then again, slower.

Jesse Moran, age nine.

That’s not right.

That can’t be right.

My pulse stumbles, hard enough to make the photo slip from my lap. I stare at the clipping, waiting for it to say something else, for the words to shift and rearrange themselves into the story I know: Her family moved. She left town.

My stomach twists, a slow, sick roll. I read the line again.

Jesse Moran, age nine, sustained fatal head injuries...

I blink. The words smear and come back the same.

That can’t be right. Jesse didn’t die.

She moved.

I can see it clear as sunlight: the brown moving truck idling at the curb, her mom waving, Jesse hanging out the window with her pink backpack strapped over both shoulders.

She said she’d write.

I remember waving until the truck turned the corner. I remember the hollow sound the street made afterward, like it was holding its breath.

I remember.

I refold the clipping, pressing hard along the crease until the paper nearly tears. The attic hums around me, the heat thick enough to drink. I look at the photo again—the way the sun hits Jesse’s hair, how she’s half-turned toward me, laughing.

That’s what it was like. That’s what it’s always been.

I set the picture down beside the box, then pick it back up again, tracing the edge. The ink’s fading, but the memory isn’t. I remember that day—the wind, the taste of lemonade from the thermos my mom packed, Jesse’s voice bouncing off the metal slide.

Everything about it is still right there.

Alive.

My chest aches, tight and hot.

The attic feels closer now, the air sticky and sour. I can’t stand how still it is. I put the clipping and the photo into my pocket, careful, like they might crumble if I breathe too hard.

The ladder groans under my weight as I climb down. The living room is darker than I expect—cooler, but too quiet. My mother’s mug sits by the sink, the faint brown ring of old coffee at the bottom. The sight of it hits me harder than it should.

I reach for it, then stop halfway. My hand trembles, and I let it fall.

I need air.

Outside, the light’s softer, the sky already folding into late afternoon. The air smells like rain on hot pavement—heavy, but clean. I don’t even realize I’ve grabbed my keys until I’m already in the car, the seatbelt strap rough against my neck.

The road to Pineview winds between rows of old trees, the same ones that used to drop acorns onto our heads when we were little. Their shadows flicker across the windshield in quick pulses of light and dark, light and dark.

I roll down the window halfway. The sound of cicadas fills the car, the same pitch they held every summer of my childhood. For a second, it feels good—steady, grounding—like nothing’s changed.

The park sign comes into view before I’m ready for it. The paint’s newer, the font different, but the letters still spell out the same name: Pineview Park.

My throat tightens.

The parking lot is almost empty. The gravel crunches under the tires as I pull in, the sound sharp in the quiet.

I sit there for a moment, engine still running. The air coming from the vents smells like dust and old fabric. I turn the key, and silence rushes in.

For a few seconds, I just stare through the windshield. The slide is plastic now—bright red, absurdly cheerful. The benches have been replaced. But the swings—

The swings are the same.

Two metal seats, chains dark with rust, the frame tilting slightly to one side.

I get out of the car. The ground gives a little under my shoes, soft with years of use. The air feels too warm against my skin, the sun low but still sharp.

I walk toward the swings, slow, like I’m afraid they’ll disappear if I move too fast. The metal glints in the light, and for a moment, I see us there—Jesse on the left, me on the right, our legs outstretched in perfect rhythm. My mom was on the bench behind us, pretending to read, calling out not to go too high.

A lump forms in my throat.

The grass around the border is patchy, worn thin. The rocks—those awful white stones that always scraped our feet—are still lined up in a half-circle.

I stop at the edge of them.

The wind shifts, pushing a faint smell of rust and hot dirt toward me. I can almost taste it.

I close my eyes. The sound comes easily—the squeak of the chains, Jesse’s laugh ringing through it. She’d lean back until her hair brushed the ground, daring gravity to blink first.

The memory feels real enough to touch.

But when I open my eyes, something in it falters—a small, sharp dissonance I can’t quite place.

I grip the chain. It’s rough under my fingers, pitted and warm.

For a moment, I stand still, breathing.

Then I sit down.

The seat wobbles under my weight, the metal groaning softly. The world around me hums with heat.

I start to swing. Slowly. Just enough for the chains to complain.

The rhythm feels familiar, comforting even—until it doesn’t.

Because somewhere in that creak, there’s another sound buried beneath it.

A dull, hollow crack.

The seat creaks in slow rhythm, each motion tugging the chain tight, then letting it fall slack again. The sound digs into my chest, steady and familiar. I focus on it, on the simple back-and-forth, until my stomach starts to loosen and my mind stops screaming.

This is what it sounded like.

This is how it felt.

For a heartbeat, it almost works. The swing’s steady breath becomes the heartbeat of summer again—cicadas, sunlight, dust hanging in the air like glitter. I can almost hear Jesse’s voice beside me, teasing me for being too scared to jump at the top of the arc. I can see her legs pumping, toes stretching for the clouds.

But then the sound changes. Just slightly.

The squeak grows uneven. One link in the chain slips, catching on the next with a sharp metallic snap.

My body goes rigid. The world flickers.

The sun turns too bright, bleaching the color from everything. I blink, but it doesn’t fade.

Another sound: a gasp.

High-pitched. Startled. Jesse’s voice—except not laughter this time.

The swing lurches. The heat rushes up the back of my neck. My fingers ache where they grip the chain.

A memory slides sideways in my mind, suddenly wrong.

We weren’t both on the swings.

She was running.

I was chasing her.

I can see it now, like film overexposed—her bare feet pounding the dirt, the hem of her shorts catching the light. She glances over her shoulder, smiling. You can’t catch me!

I lunge.

Not hard. Just a tag.

Just a stupid, playful shove.

But her heel catches the edge of the rock border.

One step back.

Then another.

Then the sound—

That awful, solid crack—

And the silence that follows.

The air leaves my lungs. The swing stops moving. I’m still holding the chains, but my knuckles have gone white.

The park around me blurs, as if heat has filled the world to its brim. My stomach lurches. I’m already on my feet and I don’t remember standing.

The rocks at the border stare up at me, patient, unchanging. The same kind, same size. I kneel. My hands hover over the dirt, trembling.

The image floods back in full now—the way Jesse’s body lay motionless, her braid tangled against her cheek, the blood pooling dark under her head. I remember Mr. Carlisle running from the fence. I remember my mother’s scream when she saw us.

And then nothing.

A clean, merciful blank.

That’s where my mind stopped.

The wind stirs the dust, thin as breath.

I drop to both knees. My palms hit the dirt, small clouds rising around my fingers. The photo slips from my pocket and lands between the rocks, the edges bending slightly. Jesse’s face stares up through a veil of grit—still laughing, forever mid-flight.

I pick it up with shaking hands. The paper bends under my grip, soft with sweat.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. My voice cracks apart on the word. “I’m so sorry.”

The words sound too small in the open air.

Tears slip down my cheeks before I feel them. I press the photo against my chest.

“I didn’t mean to,” I choke. “We were just playing. I didn’t—”

The rest dissolves into a sound I don’t recognize—half sob, half breath.

My knees dig deeper into the dirt. The ground is hot, unyielding.

“You were my best friend,” I say. The words tremble. “Because of me… you’re gone.”

The wind picks up, sweeping across the empty park. The swing moves beside me, slow, rhythmic—its shadow rocking over the ground.

“I didn’t forget you, I swear,” I whisper, voice barely there. “I just… I wanted to believe you were still here.”

The wind calms. The air still tastes like summer, but softer now, like the day’s finally ready to let go.

I sit back on my heels, the dirt clinging to my skin, and stare at the photo in my hands. Jesse’s face is half-covered in dust, but the smile is still there—bright, reckless, alive.

I brush the grit away with my thumb. The paper’s wrinkled, ruined, but I can’t bring myself to care. I tuck it back into my pocket, pressing my palm over it as if to keep her close a little longer.

The swing groans once more before falling still. The air settles around me, heavy and kind.

For the first time, I don’t flinch at the sound.

When I finally stand, my knees ache, my palms sting, but the weight inside my chest has shifted. It’s still there—it always will be—but it’s something I can hold now instead of something that holds me.

I turn toward the parking lot. The sun’s slipping low, painting the sky the same soft orange it wore the day we took that picture.

At the edge of the park, I stop and look back. The swings barely move, just a faint sway in the breeze.

“I remember you,” I whisper. “And I always will.”

The wind carries the words away—or maybe it carries them home.

I tuck the photo back into my pocket. The edges catch against the fabric, reluctant to go.

As I walk toward the car, I glance back. The swing sways once, barely moving. Just enough to make a sound—a quiet, steady groan that sounded like the wind but felt like Jesse.