I used to watch his house from my perch upon the swing-set. He once told me that his great-grandfather built it, back before the road was paved. It was made of wood and painted white, with a dark green, shingled roof. I would sit upon the stiff slat of the swing and grip the squeaky, metal bars; hard. My gaze would drift across the road, beyond the field of tangled wildflowers, to where his house stood all alone. They said his father liked his privacy. If you happened to catch a glimpse of his father, his flint-hard expression would force your eyes away, but he did not share his father’s dark looks. He had the bluest eyes and soft, yellow curls.

Sometimes, his house would be shrouded in silence; the smoke would rise languidly from the chimney, releasing a warm, wood-smoke fragrance which I loved to inhale. I would rub the cold metal of the swing’s bars with my thumbs and savour the peaceful emptiness that lay upon the breeze. Other days, however, when the heat would stifle my breath and cause my asthmatic lungs to ache with their efforts, a dreadful shouting would spill from the open windows of the white, wooden dwelling. A smashing and splintering sort of sound would assault the atmosphere, and his father’s rage-choked voice would bellow.

I never heard any responses – no tearful cries or protests, just the occasional low whimper from their bulldog, most often left tied to a tree. His sobs, if a reality, were much too faint to reach my ears.

I was acquainted with the sound that raw fear makes. I could imagine what I would witness were I to peel back the green cap of their roof and peer down upon the scene. I could conjure such images readily because just days, or hours, or moments before, my own father had unleashed his temper; leaving my sister and I to tremble and shake in the wake of his wrath. Toys and possessions were regularly sacrificed to his aggressions; mangled, wrecked, or pitched outside, and yet, we were thankful, in those instances, that the worst had come before his hands had connected with our flesh. We would sit, in a fearful paralysis, throughout the onslaught of his fury – willing it to pass. And so, when a dreadful noise came thundering from his house, I longed to somehow tell him that I knew what it felt like to wish yourself unreal, shrunken to a speck and nothing more than breeze – so boundlessly free. I wondered if the terrible tumult coming from my own home ever carried to his ears – if he knew that we shared something unspeakable.

On an autumn day, as we stepped from the school bus together, our eyes unexpectedly locked. He was peering over his shoulder at me with a piercing blue scrutiny. In those days, I was all frizzy hair, unfashionable glasses, and hand-me-down clothes.

His lip curled, playful and alluring.

‘You ever jump off a swing when you’re up really high?’ he randomly asked.

‘Maybe…,’ I sputtered, both surprised and startled, but desperate to keep him talking. ‘I like to close my eyes when I’m swinging,’ I confessed. ‘I like the way it feels… in my stomach.’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘it feels strange… but exciting.’

‘Exactly!’ I agreed, my smile widening, daring to reveal my mouthful of braces.

‘Could I come sit with you on the swings for a while?’ he asked in a rush.

Still beaming, I nodded and sprinted towards the playground.

He burst into a run and easily sped past me.

The swing-set groaned like a Halloween apparition as he leapt upon the seat and kicked off from the ground. Sitting on the swing beside him, I hurriedly pumped my legs, determined to match him.

‘Are your eyes closed?’ I asked.

‘Yes!’ he breathlessly declared.

Squeaks and creaks sawed through the air as we scooped our legs in and out, turning our shuttered faces up to the sky.

‘Are you ready to jump?’ he challenged.

His expression was pure sincerity, and so I shakily agreed, my heart swelling to fill the whole of my chest. He counted us down from three, and before I could contemplate a hint of hesitation, we flung our bodies from our perches – gasping as our stomachs plunged ahead of our descent.

For the briefest of moments, we were the boundless breath of wind and the freedom of the breeze. Truly fearless, at the apex of our leap, we knew ourselves to be vibrantly young and utterly alive. We gulped the rush of air deep into our lungs and held it fast, before we tumbled to the ground.