Home is in the quiet of the deep woods, the ancient trees bigger around then three of me, their brightly colored leaves falling in a slow stately shower.
Home is in the stillness and cold of winter. The thick blanket of snow covering everything for miles, turning once grey bleakness into a dazzle of reflected light, the white wash encompassing and cleaning the world.
Home is in the newness of spring, as the woods let go the breath they held all winter, their branches soaking up the steady rains and those all too brief moments of gleaming sunshine reflecting off the distance lake.
Home is in the heat of summer, standing on the shale beach, listening to the waves crash .. crash .. crash against the stone endlessly. Feeling the still cold water swallow you down sucking the breath from you as you dive deep.
Most of all, my memories of home are the people, places and events that cause me to carry with me an indelible mark reminding me that I'll always have someplace to go back to, that time touches lightly and moves at a pace its very own.
I grew up in a place not too far from there. Your words make me miss it.
I wrote it when I was missing it. We were lucky to grow up in the area.
Interesting
I will follow you to see your future posts! +UP
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