The frayed ropes blown in the wind leaves a nostalgic memory of children's past laughter on a hand hewn swing.

Following is a story courtesy of Michael Verde, a teacher of English at a new school near Land O Lakes in northern Wisconsin.

"I remember once when I was a little boy crabbing at the beach with my mom and dad and aunt and uncle and my grandma and grandpa. There was a swing nearby, and at the end of the day while the rest of us were putting away our nets and the bucket of crabs and whatnot in the car, my grandpa walked over to the swing and, much to my surprise--and I suspect everyone else's--he started swinging. What I remember is that he kept swinging harder and harder and hence kept going higher and higher and it did seem for a second to me that he was about to swing all the way over the pole he was hanging from. I had never seen my grandpa express himself so recklessly. He was a man incapable of allowing the plastic Christmas tree to remain out of its permanent attic box five seconds after the last gift had been opened, an Italian always repairing his pushmowers and counting his pennies. But on that day, with my eyes glued to him, he swung that swing like I bet few people had ever swung it.

Three years ago, at my grandfather's funeral, I shared that memory of him with the small crowd of his friends and family that had congregated at the little Catholic Church in east Texas where he had served as an usher for forty something years. My grandpa loved that church. He especially loved the little children and the ladies, young and old, who would hold his hand or kiss him on the cheek. I think of my grandpa often, and sometimes when I do, like just now, I have to remind myself that he is dead and that I will never see him again. I really hate that. I really hate it that people die.

If he could swing just a little bit higher, if he could make it, just once, all the way around that pole, if my grandpa could do that then maybe I could, like the rare wise crab, let go."

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