Memory

The car door slams, and the gravel crunches underfoot as I begin to pound down the lane. the car behind me, mahogany, shiny in the sunlight, urges me on in a mock race. I don't know, yet, that Mam's slippered foot won't touch the gas on the way down. I am still blissfully unaware of her benevolent cheating in our customary game.

The distant buzz of the baler sings in my ears, and I know that Pap is just over the hill. Rays of sunlight ricochet off the aluminum-covered corn, challenging me to hold their gaze. The birds won't win this year.

I slow, tired, and stoop with my elbows on my knees. I've startled the cat, and she sulks out from under the gate, her wet paws telling the tale of her latest attempt at the minnows in the pond. She's lost in the irises, the sea of colors releasing the heady scent that assails my nostrils.

I climb the porch, my gaze on the new blooms on the cherry tree. My mouth puckers in anticipation of the tart fruit. I rest on the big rock that doubles as stepping stone. Here, just here, I am peaceful. I am at rest.

It's not home, not physically. This is where the oldest part of my soul belongs.