At first I wanted to write you a scrawled, angry message in black marker and put it anonymously up on the trees where the swings used to hang. Just so you’d see it and read it and know how I and my family feel. But my wife talked me out of it. She reminded me that I don’t know what’s going on with you. She’s right. I don’t know what you know about the swings; what you felt about them; or why you did what you did.
So I’m writing my letter to you here in this blog. Not because I think you’ll ever read it, but because I just have to write it. I have to get it out of my system.