In That Little Town

May 17, 2010
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I am from that little town,/Where everyone is your neighbor./From the bike rides in the park on beautiful summer days./I am from the cherry tree,/Where birds always get first pick./These memories I keep locked away,/But always close at hand.//I am from the endless afternoons playing circus with Grandma./From the huge side yard perfect for kickball./i am from the countless skinned knees and multiple broken bones./From the limitless supply of kisses from mom./I am from the melting ice pops on hot days,/Covering me with sticky juice./From the coloring books and broken crayons./I am from the morning sun peeking in through my windows,/Their golden rays saying "Good Morning."//I am from the toy house and bubble blowers./From the days of cooling off in the sprinkler./I am from the bedtime story of "The Giving Tree" read by my father./From the long hours drawing with chalk and playing hopscotch./I am from the bright moon rising slowly over the trees,/As I say good night.//I am from the annual camping trips in which it always rains./From the campfires that save me from the night's chill./I am from the ghost stories and singing games./From the millions of mosquito bites and bruises./From the places I have yet to be,/That are waiting patiently from me.//Memories make up who I am,/So I keep them in a safe spot./Locked up tightly so nobody can steal them,/But open enough to share them,/So that even when I am gone,/My memories will live on./Forever.





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