Read Won't Let Go for Free Online Page A

make a mess in here, alright?” Again, Oakley nods. I suppose this is better than a ghost that won’t shut up.
     
     
    Downstairs, the house is even quieter. I glance in the kitchen, empty, then Dad’s office, empty, too. “Mom?” I call out, but am met with continued silence.
    Striding over to the front door, I open it and step out onto the veranda. The sun is still high in the sky. Placing my hand up like a visor, I look at it. It’s not nearly as hot as back in California. The sun still, however, envelopes me with its warmth, casting bright rays onto everything it reaches.
    From here, I can see only the crest of the hill we are set on. It’s like the earth drops off as if it were square, everything beyond only speculation. Thick trees line the huge gravel drive, wrapping around the entire house, surrounding me with forest. As I make my way down the steps and around the side past the garage, only a small patch of overgrown lawn lies behind the house. On that sits a battered and weathered swing set, rusting in solitude. I decide to forge through the jungle and make my way to it.
    Gently, I tug on the linked metal rope holding up a plastic swing. It jingles and seems sturdy. Taking it under me, I sit, kicking out with my feet until I am propelled forward and backward. The metal whines with each half revolution.
    When I was a kid, we used to swing as high as we could, the metal chain whipping straight as we swung back and forth, until, if we were bold enough, we jumped off into the sandpit below. The swing would then fly in every direction with the loss of the weight that held it straight and steady.
    Though I can’t go as high as I used to, after a few minutes, the wind blowing my hair, I decide to jump. I pick a spot, a guess at how far ahead I can land, release my hold and let my body soar through the air, landing on two feet. Looking back towards the swing, I chuckle. I only made it about three feet, hardly a gold medal winning jump. But my mind is clear, as if the continued back and forth movement pushed everything out, and as I jumped I left it all behind.
    Sitting down, right where I landed— criss-cross apple sauce —I pull at the tall blades of grass, each one thin and bright green, reminding me of my mothers’ eyes, of mine. I twirl the blades around, squish them between my fingers, bruising them, so they leak green blood onto my hands. I pick at more of the grass, pulling huge chunks and tossing them aside. It begins to smell like a golf course, of freshly mowed turf. It’s not the same as the salty sea air back home, or the smog and haze of downtown LA, and for a moment I miss everything about California. The sights, the sounds and the smells. Here, in Willard Grove, I take deep gulps of air that’s just too perfect, clean and crisp. No cow manure like I’d thought, that’s for sure. And certainly no ozone killing fumes.   
    But unlike the perfect air, the smell of grass, the weathered house is not perfect. The deep brown paint is chipped, the windowsills sag. Thick cobwebs dangle in the corners of the eaves and I’m pretty sure that’s a hornet’s nest I see, too. And yet, as I sit here, I can imagine it so differently. I stare off, into the unknown, where the house takes on a slightly new form in my mind. Once, someone took great care of this place. They regularly mowed the lawn, tended the flowerbeds, freshly painted each plank of wood that makes up the exterior, and in the spring, cleaned the windows. They probably took a broom, swatted away the webs. Maybe even hung Christmas lights from the eaves. Children once took great delight in the swing set, playing, running and laughing until they were forced by the dropping sun and twilight to come in, put on pajamas and get tucked into bed.
    Then, just like that, the light bulb goes on.
    I stand up and wipe the grass blood onto my jeans, dust off my bum and skip, a little lighter on my feet, towards the house. Even though Oakley can’t remember