The Swing...the hours spent in it, on it, swinging, sitting and twirling, laying back hanging on looking through the trees, at the sky, at the trees, noticing the iron bar the big oak trees had grown around, that Grandpa Fitzpatrick had placed there many years ago when my mom was a little girl, the iron rings still there, never changed, only the ropes when they wore out, or the wooden seat our family would make and notch and put onto the rope just so…jeanie with the light brown hair…walk right in, sit right down, baby let your hair hang down…the woods just behind you, the tips of the trees brushing your legs and back on the backswing, dragging your feet in the well-worn dirt path to stop, jumping off into the pile of leaves in the fall that Dad would make just for you…hearing Mom whistling in the house making supper…walking from the swing to the house, crunching acorns under your feet…dew on the grass on early morning swings when Mom would be by the clothesline hanging the clothes, whistling, the bright morning sun making the white sheets so brilliant you can hardly look at them, spiderwebs gleaming, worms hanging, dandylion seed floating, distant crows cawing…year pass, and there are your own children, swinging on that same swing, the same iron bar, the same iron rings...there comes a day when the auctioneer sounds in the front yard and strangers look through your things, your memories, and you quietly walk past the crowds to the swing and take one last swing before leaving it to your past, and walking on...