He listened to a swing outside his trailer hanging from a tall oak in the middle of the night. Going back and forth in November’s breeze. It squeaked a soft pitch, putting him to sleep. Only to be awakened a few hours later from nightmares of his past.

Did she really exist? he thought. A short time seems like a lifetime, he whispered, shaking. The old man took a swig of brandy sitting on his end table and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Cracked, chapped lips wet from the liquor. He turned on the lamp and pulled open a drawer underneath. It was a color photograph of a little blonde girl. She was five. He remembered that.

The old man held the picture tightly. I thought she’d live forever, he said out loud. He leaned back in his easy chair and held her to the light. I did my job, he whispered. I did my job.

Mother and child lived across town in a one room rental. Mom had a mental illness, heard voices inside her head. She’d leave her daughter with momma and take off for weeks at a time. Criss-crossing the nation from Indiana to New York and out to Los Angeles. The young mother sold herself on the streets for dollars and cans of beer. Her green eyes looked crazy. The young lady stared down her clients as if they were game to be hunted. She never said a word. Just gave em what they wanted and went on to the next one.

The old man would visit twice a month. Every other weekend, he’d knock on their door and wait for it to open. Sometimes, it took a while. He had to call out through the thick wood, it’s me. I wanna see Bess Ann. Mother and daughter would open the door. He’d pick her up in his fat arms and hold the child. Told her he was sorry. Bess Ann would nuzzle in his chest.

What’re you sorry about? asked his former lover. You got any money? she twisted in the doorway, took a twenty from him, and invited the young buck in. He held the kid tightly, never wanting to let go. And then, he’d leave. Just go back to his trailer and drink till he cried. Waiting and waiting for Bess Ann to grow up. Maybe come stay with him. These were all dreams. Living with a drunk would be better than living with a schizophrenic hooker, he laughed and then passed out.

He got a call from Grandma one morning. Something had been wrong with Bess Ann for a while. Said she was real sickly. Her skin was yellow, and she cried a lot. The child complained of stomach pains.

He took her to the hospital where a doctor confirmed what he thought. Bess Ann was dying from cancer. Soon, she’d be gone.

They buried her in a pine box. A pauper’s funeral. He tossed flowers into the casket before they closed the door forever. He said a prayer. She went her way, and he went his. They never saw each other again.

At night, when the wind blew the swing back and forth, the old man would look at that picture of Bess Ann. I never got to push her into the air, he said, then take another drink of brandy.