Kidy
You both wanted the red swing, little one. That is the whole story, and somehow it turned into loud words and a shove, and now you are sitting at one end of the playground and your friend is at the other, backs turned, and the whole afternoon has gone grey.
Grow sits down next to you in the woodchips and does not say 'go and say sorry'. Grow says: 'Your face is doing two things at once. It is still angry, and it misses him. Both. At the same time.' You nod, and your throat goes tight, because nobody has ever said that out loud before. Both are allowed.
'Look properly,' says Grow, and points at the middle of your chest. And there it is: a thread. Thin, and silver, and running all the way across the playground from you to your friend, drooping low and grey in the middle, sagging in the dust. But not broken. Not even a little bit. You had no idea it was there the whole time.
'What you need,' Grow announces grandly, 'is a SPEECH. Dearest friend, on this day of days, I hereby...' Grow gets tangled in its own words and stops, ears pink. So you just walk over and say the true thing: 'The swing felt more important than you. But it isn't.' Your friend looks up. Grow blinks. 'Right. That was better than mine.' Then Grow adds, softly: 'A fight does not cut the thread. It only goes slack, until somebody pulls it gently.'
The thread goes tight, and warm, and gold. You take turns on the red swing, one pushing and one flying, and the afternoon has colour again. Grow leans on the swing pole and asks, 'So, little one... did we grow a little today?' You did. 'Here is your little grow for tomorrow,' says Grow. 'If the thread goes slack with someone, give it a pull: go and stand next to them. You do not even have to talk yet.' See you tomorrow, little one.