16 September 2011

A Visit Home

A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen. 
 -Edward de Bono

The place of my childhood is different. The thistle is tall against the silo, the house yellow instead of white. The roses are dying, the orchard is gone, but everything I remember shines past reality.  I can see what this place is in my memory: I dream it, feel it.  I smell the sawdust and taste the September apples. Here, the resounding crunch on the dirt lane creates a rhythm for the past.

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