Kyle was sitting in his wheelchair. I didn't know who he really was or what his real story was. He pushed his wheelchair out the back door of the hospital to the tree nearby where he stopped and stared at the wooden swing. I went to stand beside him. 

“Hello,” I said. “Want to sit there?” 

He looked at me, puzzled. I saw that he was about my age but quite smaller. His face was deathly pale. 

“Hi.” His voice was dry. Then he turned and looked towards the swing again. 

Without saying a word I carried him and set him on the swing. Then I pushed gently and swung him back and forth. 

“Thanks,” he said. Then added: “The doctor says I have to go to the ‘west.’” 

The next day I didn’t see him. I inquired about him to the nurse and she said: “Kyle? He died last night from an acute gastritis attack. Poor boy, his legs were paralyzed too. His relatives didn’t care for him.” 

I returned to our swing and sat there. I felt the cold air brush my skin as I murmured, “Happy trip to the ‘west,’ Kyle.”

© 2008 Albert H. Original for CCF  (Albert H. grants CCF  first electronic rights for one month; CCF may archive the material indefinitely and include it in an eBook anthology).

* CCF does not publish students' last names on the work they submit for publication.