The woman sat on the dark oak swing. The light shining on her rose-colored hair. Her eyes twinkling and glimmering, as joy kisses her scarlet lips. Her dress pulling, straining against the wind, being forced up and down. A hundred stories she falls into the protection of the weathered wood and rusted chains. The creaking and clanging only being overtaken by the squeal of laughter. A soft laughter, one you would want to curl up and sleep in. The upward motion leading to the same downward fall, then back up again. A crack followed by a thud, a gurgle, then silence. The crimson seeping into the dirt, as a new weathered dead oak tree was planted.