Spooky Sparkle

His icy fingers patiently, discreetly trace the links on the swing's chain. Glancing at the trees in anticipation of the mounting breeze. Barely more than a draft, and he knows that he needs at least a gust. A gust is all it takes to transform the swing path from gentle sway into a playful cadence. A natural, but jaunty rhythm that they won't notice. The family won't know.

The family can't know. He lingers unobserved, but always present. He shies from their company as they push their smiling girl back and forth, her legs can't reach the ground. Her weight obliges more than wind for motion. The girl's pink skin soaks in the sunshine that seers and stings his transparency. But the moonlight nourishes and soothes him. So he waits, thankful for the hours of nighttime vacancy. The slide is useless to him, no mass to begin the descent. The height of the playhouse gives him no pleasure, he who can soar to the stars. But the swing is his solace.

Suddenly a gale, a tempest before the morn. Midnight's breath rocks him to sleep, a peace more tranquil than any mother's arms.


***
a note about the story's origin-
I've glanced out our back window so many times to see the swings pitching in the Oklahoma wind. I often imagine that I see this little one enjoying the swings when he thinks no one else is looking...