[ WP ] A man pushes an empty swing .

I saw the old man push the swing, again. He had to be at least ninety, and as my aunt would say, `` So close to death, he has the Grim Reaper on speed dial.'' 
 
 He would sit for a while at the park where I worked as a ranger. Then, struggling to get up from the weathered, wooden bench with arthritic pain, he would rise, go over to the swing, and give it a few desultory pushes. At least, they seemed desultory to me. 
 
 Each day since I started, for months: He'd sit with his cane, and stare off into nowhere. Then, get up, totter over to the swing set, and give an empty seat a few pushes. 
 
 Often, that set was occupied by laughing children, challenging one another to swing higher than the rest, sure of their immortality and their ability to be just fast enough, or strong enough, to avoid mistakes -- the kind that, unfortunately, ended in a broken arm or twisted ankle for the ones who were not as quick, or as brave, as their peers. 
 
 The old man would wait with the patience that only the elderly have, having known the passage of decades. When those children were done, he'd walk over to the chain-and-rubber child's playground toy, and give it one, two, three pushes. Sometimes four. Then, after a minute, he'd leave. 
 
... 
 
 One day, I was overcome with curiosity. I approached him as he slowly made his way to the recently vacated swing set. 
 
 `` Hello?'' I came up from behind him. Today he was wearing a yellow short sleeved shirt, the folds of his worn, aged skin moving shakily as he maneuvered his cane to support his frail body. 
 
 He kept going. I do n't think he heard me. `` Hello!'' I repeated, a little louder as he made it to the swing he traditionally pushed, lacking any child to enjoy it. 
 
 He slowly turned and looked at me. `` Pardon me?'' He said with a thick accent. I would guess eastern European roots. 
 
 `` Hello!'' 
 
 `` Hello, young man. How are you?'' He extended a shaky hand, and I returned a soft handshake. I was approaching forty; I would n't say I was all that young. Compared to him, though, I was baby. 
 
 I could n't help but notice what looked like a bruise on his inner arm. Poor guy; they probably poked and prodded him for blood at his doctor's office. 
 
 `` Fine. How are you, sir?'' I replied. 
 
 `` Oh, just getting along. I come here every day for wool-gathering, you know. Such a beautiful park, here.'' His voice sounded old, and tired. 
 
 `` It is, sir.'' 
 
 `` I think my brother and sister would have liked it, here.'' He said, eyes momentarily downcast behind his thick, Coke-bottle glasses. 
 
 `` Where are they?'' 
 
 `` Dead.'' 
 
 `` I'm sorry to hear it.'' 
 
 `` Thank you, son.'' He looked up again, at me. `` So, you have a question for me, Officer?'' 
 
 Heh. My uniform. Just under two years on the job, and I'm still not used to people addressing me as'Officer'. `` My name is Dan.'' 
 
 `` Daniel?'' 
 
 `` Just'Dan'.'' 
 
 `` Okay, Daniel. What's your question?'' 
 
 `` Well, sir. I noticed you come and push the swing every day, with no children in it. May I ask why?'' 
 
 `` You saw me do that, eh?'' He smiled a little at this, like he was a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. 
 
 `` Yeah.'' 
 
 `` Then watch, and I'll explain.'' He turned to the swing, and gripped the chain with his right hand. `` The soldiers took us -- my brother, my sister, my mother, and me -- when I was six years old. My father was probably at the factory; I do not know.'' He paused, his unsteady right hand shaking the chain, his left leaning on his cane. 
 
 `` The soldiers took us, and separated us. My sister and mother in one boxcar; my brother and me in another. I rode a night and a day, and when they let us out, we were herded into long houses. My brother and I stayed together. They put us children to work on machines where our little hands could get at smaller parts. Sometimes my friends' hands were crushed. My brother lost a finger...'' He paused, again. 
 
 `` They gave me this to make sure I knew I was a number, not a person.'' He turned his arm, and showed me the bruise. 
 
 Only, it was n't a bruise; it was a series of numbers. Old, faded, but indelibly marked into his skin. 
 
 `` The Americans came and freed us, just a month too late. My mother and sister were dead from the gas chambers, and my brother died of pneumonia. I was ten when I left the camp. I was lucky, and got sent to live with my aunt here in America, where I got work in a bakery.'' 
 
 He walked behind the swing, and steadied himself with his cane. `` My brother, my sister, and me? We never had a childhood. We never played. We worked, starved, and did our best to avoid the guards' attention. So, I do this.'' And he pushed the swing. 
 
 `` One push, for my sister, Anna,'' The swing went out, and came back. 
 
 `` One push, for my brother Yosef,'' the swing went out, and came back again. 
 
 `` And one push for me, because no one ever did.'' And he pushed it again. 
 
... 
 
 The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the creaking sounds of an un-greased playground swing, and a survivor's memorial to a childhood that was taken from him and his siblings.
