Driving down these familiar roads I'm wrapped in the beauty and comfort of a quilt of spruce, pines, oaks, maples and elms. Such a variety blurs into a harmony of green.
This place sings to me, it's in my marrow, every cell, it whispers sweet nothings of the past. Each season, strongly defined, offers its own flavor of memory. Verdant summers: the buzz of bees surrounding peaches fallen from our backyard tree; cool breezes streaming through a window during a drowsy afternoon; the buttery taste of honeysuckle picked from the side of the road. Or winter: Mittens crusted with frost from building snow men; the dizzying high of sledding down our hill until fingers and noses were numb; foraying into the frozen swamp for daily adventures. Or spring: blooming with dogwoods and a riot of color and flowers as dad's garden was reborn each year; the clean smell of cut grass while riding a lawn mower; chasing each other around a cherry tree in full blossom.
Now it is fall, red brushes the landscape, and I'm immersed in pumpkins, corn and mums. I watch the orange barn painted in yellow morning sun; walk through fields dappled in patterns of leaves and light. This place winks at me, offers promises of the future - barefoot children running and laughing in the field, as carefree as I once was, before the weight of school, cruel classmates and the sadness of the world. This is the only place in memory free from those burdens, untouched, in my mind, if not reality - a constant haven. I can shut out the encroaching developments, traffic, stores, and people because there are still enough of these green, rolling hills that surround and beckon, taking me back to that place, that state, that wonderful feeling of belonging.
I know my recollections are coated with the veneer of nostalgia, but at its best, this place matches and exceeds these snippets my mind has saved. These pages of memory turn so fast they have blended into a glow of warmth and love, so that returning here will always, always feel like coming home.
