We took turns pushing you on the swingset. You would go high when I pushed you. Mom didn’t push you so hard. She was scared you might fall out, he said. Then I’d grab onto the rusted chains and slow you down till you landed safely, Dad told him. You used to laugh. You don’t do that much anymore.

What’s that? The son asked.

Laugh. The two walked on for a while. Picking up sticks in the park. Pieces of oak and hickory. Pine and other soft woods. There was a quiet between them. They just looked at the ground. Do you have fun anymore? Dad asked.

The kid shrugged his shoulders. Picked up more sticks. I don’t know, dad. Sometimes.

Like when?

When I think of mom, he looked down at the grass and leaves. Around springtime, when it’s not so cold. When I put on my favorite jacket. The one mom used to button up for me.

Yeah, said dad. I miss her, too.