I was ten years old when I lost Linda, my best friend. She lived in my neighbourhood. One good quality in her was that she never quaralled with me.
Our favourite game was to go up in the air on a swing. It was my father who made the swing and hung it up on a branch of a sprawling tree. We used to meet almost every day in our backyard where the swing was.
One day, however, something unexpected happened. Linda was swinging as high as I could and she went up still higher. The next time when I looked up I saw only the swing and Linda was not on it.
I kept looking for her and found her in a thicket nearby. She had fallen off the swing and fractured her left arm. After the unfortunate incident, we could not meet as usual.
I did not wish to go up on the swing while she was suffering. When I visited her, she was wearing a cast on her broken arm. Her parents had warned her not to play with me or go up on the swing.
It took about one month to heal her broken arm. When she recovered completely, we decided to play with the swing taking turns – one pushing and the other going up in the air. On the swing On holidays, we went higher and higher on the swing.
It was great fun. It was almost dark when Linda’s mother called her to come home without delay to see what her father had brought her. However, we kept on swinging.
Her mother called again and Linda slowly raised her head from the swing as if to hear some woman calling her from miles and miles away. When her mother kept on calling he.