I don't own Naruto.

XXXXXXX

There's a poetry to swinging alone, he mused. A freedom, though controlled. Play, though work. While swinging you have to work hard to go high, but once you get there it's almost effortless. As if you could go for hours, just you and the continuous motion. Just you and the wind and the sky. You and the never forgotten movements, the methodic melody of the squeaky chains or the creaky rope.

He'd spent several lonely days on the swing. Nobody would play with him, but after days of watching the others in the parks, he figured out how to move. He'd always been jealous watching the parents push their children.

Though, there's poetry to swinging together, too. You and another, sometimes matching in rhythm, sometimes discordant. Sometimes in tune, other times opposite. Still you and them, the sky and the wind, but also the shared smiles and giggles that only come when you have company. Company that can be called friend, or more.

One day, then another, and another, the swing next to him was taken up by a quiet girl with dark hair. They rarely talked, but who needs words when there's a music heard only in the silence of words? In the buzzing and the squeaking, in the laughs and the whistling of the wind.

But then, there's also a poetry to taking turns. One pushing, the other swinging. One setting the pace, the other screaming and cheering and holding on tight. There's a trust to it. Neither will not push too hard, and the other will hold their ground, so to speak, on the seat.

There was a day, when they were grown and tired, when they came back to the swings. She limped and sat, and he pushed. As he pushed he sneakily dropped a chain over her head, a chain holding a ring, and waited for her to notice. He knew when she did, and stopped the pushing to kneel in front of her.

There's a poetry to swinging, she told their children, and it mirrors the poetry of life. In the beginning you will be pushed, to start the experience. Then you have to learn how to move, and you'll go faster and faster. You'll jump without looking, and you'll get hurt, too. You'll find people to share it with, and you'll share swings and push each other along the way, and sometimes you'll push too hard and they'll fall, or vice versa, but that's okay because apologies will be heard and ouches smoothed over. You'll swing alone, and with others, you'll push and be pushed, forever.

And when it's time to fly high and away, he told their great grandchildren on his death bed, you'll find yourself there again, pumping your legs until it's just you and the sky and the wind, and you'll let go at the height of your swing with a smile on your face, ready to join the clouds.