I have enough memories to last me a lifetime. They will not bury themselves from which they were born. I remember a small country church, a chorus of crows, the splashing of a brook running through the nearby Pine trees, wind stroking the branches with its unseen fingers. There was love and peace on top of Burleson Mountain. Death, a road away from the weathered house of worship, the hearse black and cold; followed by black feathered angels.
The years go by quickly, and I returned. No longer will the water near the Pines cool my Grandmothers thirst, nor will the winds embrace her leathered flesh.
The old shack stood for decades, the rocker on her porch is stilled, no hand waves goodbye. In a cobwebbed corner of the old tenant farmers shack, the sun shined through a cloudy window, while an image of tattered plastic curtains dance on a nearby cracked mirror hanging on the wall. Childhood is dead.
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