:: recovered from the dew drop files- June '08::
I miss the rhythm of childhood.
The way each step followed the next.
The creak of the floorboards as mom came to the door.
Dad's nose honking in the shower.
Coffee grinder whizzing.
I miss the hope of summer in the smell of the flowers,
the push of the air,
the ants on their hills.
Climbing to the top of the dirt pile,
the flapping of the tissue kite.
Sliding down into the ravine,
sand in my shoes,
clay under my nails.
* I remember each summer we'd get a load of top soil for the garden. Piled at the top of the driveway, Little Bits (my sister) and I would play "mud men" rolling down the dirt pile, and jumping under the hose to clean off.
When we moved to the Port, a town of many hills, we had a ravine on each side of our subdivision- some days we'd head down to the ravine to the south- lunches packed, and get lost for the day in the woods (um... we weren't really lost). Other days we'd head to the "sand pit" to the North, and dig clay from the stream ... building ash trays for parents who didn't smoke, and digging into the sandy cliffs.