After school today, I squatted in the corner of the yard watching Grandpa change the swing ropes. That swing, tied between the cedar trees with urea bags and plastic ropes, has been with me for seven years.
I remember the first time I sat on it, I had to stand on tiptoe to reach the ground. Grandpa's hands were large and warm; with a gentle push, the wind filled my little floral skirt. "Higher!" I shouted, gripping the ropes tightly, watching the ground below seem near and far, like riding a flying boat. Back then, I always felt that if I swung high enough, I could touch the cotton candy hidden in the clouds.
Later, the swing ropes carved deep grooves into the tree trunks, and my feet could firmly touch the ground. One summer night, I swung while listening to Grandpa talk about the Big Dipper, my skirt brushing against the dew-covered cedar leaves, feeling cool and refreshing. Suddenly, I realized that the wooden plank that once needed to be pushed to move could now be launched into the air with a gentle push.
After changing the ropes today, I sat on it alone. The setting sun cast a long shadow, like a thin harp string. I closed my eyes and swayed to the highest point, hearing the wind whisper in my ear, "Look, you can fly on your own now." The arc of the swing holds the secret of growing from a child who needed to be pushed to a teenager who can control their own rhythm.
When I landed, I saw that the rope marks on the tree trunk had deepened. Those marks worn by time were, in fact, lines of poetry written in childhood.