Owen

3 - Swings of Change

3 - Swings of Change

The only similarity between the Owen back then and the Owen now is his smile, as far as I can tell.

And, according to Grandma, he didn't show it that much often. I described in detail Owen and I's first meeting to Grandma, and she smiled. It was so Owen of him to give you the balloon. And to hold your hand, she had said, giggling like a school girl.

But the giggling didn't last long, because Grandma had to tell me how Owen changed.

Owen's house burned down. No one knew why, and no one knew how. Only Owen and his Mom survived. But his Mom was a wreck, Grandma said. Not physically, but emotionally. Owen's father was everything to his Mom, and the moment he died, it was like something in Owen's Mom died too.

Grandma told me she still visits Owen's Mom, Martha, every week to give her bread and to talk to her for an hour or so. She, Grandma, was the first one to make her smile since the incident. Not Owen, Grandma informed me, because Martha thought Owen had something to do with his father's death - also the reason why Owen had anger issues.

It took like an hour for Grandma to explain all this, and by the time she's finished, my head was spinning. So, not minding my horrible haircut and my non-ironed shirt (Mom will so kill me when she finds out), I asked for her permission to go out and ponder stuff over. Of course, being the nice old Grandma that she is, she agreed.

Hence why I'm here now, swinging by myself on the playground near the acacia tree. I don't know why I'm here either. It's like my feet dragged me here to see the tree again or something. Heh, that must sound retarded though.

"I want to cheer him up," I think aloud, struggling to swing even higher. "Poor old Owen's having a hard time."

"I don't think Owen's old enough to be called old."

I nearly jump a mile out of that rusty old swing. It's the boy wearing the 'Galen High' jacket earlier, taking the swing next to me. Huh. I shake my head before taking my seat - or my swing, in this case - again. I must have left a dent or something, because by the time I sit down, it's like I'm sinking deeper. 

"You're new here, aren't you?" he asks, his voice gentle. He reminds me of Erica, the way his voice slightly gets deeper for emphasis.

"Not really," I confess, not daring to check him out. I don't want to creep any possible friends, since I might be here for a long long while. "I'm returning, see. I used to live here a couple of years ago."

"Must be the reason why you know Owen," he says, chuckling softly. "Not many know him. And not many want to cheer him up."

"You're that guy at Amy's right?"

"Yes. You're that girl eating with her 'rents, right?"

"Yep."

"You don't think he's a delinquent for cussing so openly earlier?"

"I just think the world's kind of hard on him," I reply, staring at the acacia tree in the distance. It's like I can still see the words etched there - Owen and Amy for ever. 

"The world's hard on the best people, eh?" he smiles, shaking his head. "Owen used to be as gentle as a lamb then. Saves kittens every night." At this, he laughs loudly, throwing his head back.

"That gentle, huh?" I also laugh, imagining the Owen now climbing a tree to save a frail little kitty.

As if reading my mind, the dude I'm talking to, leans in and whispers, "I bet you imagined him doing that now."