I am from long car rides,

From homemade and homegrown.

I am from old rope swings and sunshine,

Warm and welcoming.

I am from the forests near my home,

The pine tree,

The one with the branches I used to climb when I was young.

I am from front porch lights and fireflies,

That lit up my childhood

I am from the “slow downs” and “ stop to smell the roses”.

From the old songs and old movies,

That I know like the back of my hand.

I’m from the tall grass and family kick ball,

From dust on our faces and dirt under our nails.

I am from the road where I learned to ride my bike to the lake where I learned to swim.

And on the wall are the wooden frames,

That hold the people I used to know.

Some seen only through a yellowed filter and tattered edges,

From when this home was built. 

You could practically hear the pictures of those days

Muffled laughter with faint cicadas buzzing in the background.

And you could almost smell the freshly-baked, big-enough-for-twelve-pumpkin pie that 

overtook the smell of the campfire coming in through the screen.

And while you imagine what used to be, 

You notice the empty frame,

The one hanging next to the stone fireplace.

A memory just waiting to be created, then remembered.