The lingering moisture that gathered in the air has always done that to me. Perhaps a bit of the past was carefully mixed in along with the misty fog too.
It’s an encouraging starting point, a way to help you organize, and an inspiring task crafted to lure the average writer out to do what they love best—write.
Two thousand and two miles and seven states in twenty-nine hours. My sister and I drove that distance in a small Hyundai Sonata from Tennessee to California. We celebrated as he passed state lines, posed in front of state signs, and nearly killed each other in the last eight hours before we made it to California.
You tell me that where you’re from
a pitcher full of this on a porch
was all anyone needed.
It was a link to the past,
a connection to the future,
and it quenched
wandering mid-day thoughts.
And then it happened without warning.
Many of those same kids
now in high school or off to college
don’t come by your house anymore.
They no longer call on the phone.
glide past sounds from our television.
As you sit down and hold my hand
you unravel decades of history.
Another friend has died today.
You make the trek to show support
and say your last goodbyes.
I never see you cry.
You know that they are safe
in a place without pain or suffering.
There’s a secret sea of green
flooding a room in your home.
Where leaves sprout and stretch
their limbs in every direction.
Brick by brick you built your own house with your hands,
and beyond plaster and wood you built a home.
You once resided
in the heart of the goddess
of fruitful abundance.
A house nestled
the thinning orchards
that bore life.