Page 4 of Bozo

Aged Seven

I sit on the swing, my legs pushing me higher and higher as I watch the little boy laughing with his mam. Tears fill my eyes as I watch them. My mam used to do that with me. Not anymore. She’s gone.

There was a car crash and she’s gone, and she’s never coming back. Dad hated being in the house we had, so we had to move. He couldn’t stay there anymore without Mam. I’m seven years old and I no longer have a mam.

“Why are you crying?” I hear someone ask. I turn to see a blonde-haired, green-eyed boy looking at me with a frown. “Why are you sad?”

I quickly wipe my eyes, embarrassed to be caught crying. "I'm not sad," I lie, looking away from the boy.

He doesn't leave, instead sitting on the swing next to me. "You look sad," he insists. "Did you fall and hurt yourself?"

I shake my head, still not meeting his gaze. The laughter of the little boy and his mam echoes across the playground, making my chest ache.

"Is it because of them?" the boy asks, following my gaze to the happy pair.

I nod slightly, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

"Where's your mam?" he asks innocently.

The question hits me like a punch to the stomach. Fresh tears spill down my cheeks as I choke out, "She's gone."

The boy is quiet for a moment, then he says softly, "I’m sorry. Sometimes I wish my dad was gone."

I look at him in surprise. “You do?” I ask, hope blooming in my chest. I wish that too. My dad is mean now that Mam’s gone. He doesn’t play with me. All he does is shout and hurt me.

“Yeah, he’s an asshole.”

I gasp at him. “I’m not allowed to say bad words,” I tell him.

The boy shrugs, kicking his feet in the dirt. "My mam says it's okay to use bad words if they're true."

I tilt my head to the side and watch him, then whisper, "My dad's an asshole too."

The boy grins at me, and I feel a small smile tugging at my own lips. It feels good to say it out loud.

"I'm Connor," he says, extending his hand like a grown-up.

I take it, shaking it solemnly. "I'm Gráinne."

"Want to play on the monkey bars?" Connor asks, hopping off his swing.

I hesitate, glancing back at the mother and child. The ache in my chest is still there, but it's duller now.

"Okay," I say, and follow Connor across the playground.

As we climb and swing from bar to bar, I find myself laughing for the first time in what feels like forever. Connor tells jokes and makes silly faces, and for a little while, I forget about the empty space where my mammy should be.

When it starts to get dark out, Connor takes my hand. “It’s time to go home. I’ll walk you to your house. Do you know where you’re going?”

“I’m seven,” I tell him. “Of course I do.”

He gives me another grin. “I’m nine. Now come on,” he says as he begins to walk out of the park. I tell him where I live and he laughs. “You live a few houses down from me,” he tells me. “That’s good. Now we can play again. Want to go to the park again tomorrow?”

I nod eagerly. "If my dad lets me."

"If he doesn't, I'll come find you," Connor says. "We're friends now, and friends stick together."

My heart races at his words. I have a friend. That’s something I haven’t had before.

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