The playground

I picture the swings swaying in the wind, a blonde angel laughing as she swings high enough that she feels butterflies in her stomach, the world as innocent as her laugh. The memory of simplicity that is childhood, enjoying a breeze in the summer. Calluses on the angels hands from swinging from rung to rung on the monkey bars. The patch of dirt that once was the creaky red swing-set that held many laughs between two sisters. Behind the angel a simple stone headstone, the reminder of a dog she once loved so. 

The machine shed

Kicking dirt as dust flies through the air. The angels voice echos in the metal tower. The tractors look gigantic, tires towering over the little angels head, a reminder of the hard work that her grandparents put into the land here. A reminder that things often look so big and scary when you are young. The best hiding place for hide and seek. 

The timber

Mushroom hunting. Weiner roasts. The crackling fire as the angel awaits the popping of the best popcorn, because it was stirred by a grandfather she adores so. That black kettle crusted with love and memories shared by the family. The picnic table where the angel would get splinters but wouldn’t care because she was sitting with people that made her into the woman she is today. Jumping from hay bale to hay bale so the smoke didn’t puncture her lungs. Going off on her own into the vast timber that held vibrant life in the trees and in the dirt. Where she would find mushrooms to fry with her mother, and ticks to latch on to the memories created there. 

The farmhouse 

The dark green carpet with curling corners on the white porch, watching cars barrel down the gravel road, kicking up dust. The grill where the angels’ Poppa would cook the best bacon a girl ever tasted. The wooden bench with a heart cut into it to signify the love that surrounds her, at the old farmhouse. The angel sits on that bench and listen to the sounds of nature, somewhat undisturbed in its pleasantness. The stillness of the grounds are a rejuvenating reminder that life doesn’t have to be fast, we are not in need of hurry, that we can sit on the bench and bask in the stillness once in a while. The angel watches the American flag sway in the wind, and see one less cherry tree every year, another reminder that things do not always stay the same, and death is a part of life. The poppies are no longer a flower of the farmhouse, now her gaze focuses on other flora when she walk up the sidewalk to the old house. Perspective changes with every year that passes, the places change, as do the people that admire it. 

The angel looks out now at the vastness of the land and she is at first saddened by the change of scenery that is a newly built home across the way. It is a reminder that things change beyond our control. But instead of seeing it as an obstruction to the view of the beautiful farmland that she looks out the farmhouse window and sees, she sees opportunity for others, a new family to enjoy the same view as her. It is a privilege to enjoy a nice view, and something we often take for granted. 

The garden 

Where the angels’ grandmother tends to her fruits and vegetables. With tender and care she grows, so that the fruits of her labor can be shared among family and friends. Lettuce and tomatoes for BLTs and rhubarb for for birthday pies. 

Just outside the garden, where the angel used to ride horses, Rusty and Lady, until her thighs became tight and she hopped off the saddle. Those horses, another reminder that death is a part of life, but it doesn’t mean it’s less beautiful. And the memories remain intact. 

Back in the house,

The angel sits in her mother’s old room, as ornate as it was when she was the angels’ age. The angel sits on the floral quilted comforter as the bed squeaks. She brushes her hair with her mothers’ hairbrush.

Thea angel cherishes the moments spent laughing and being squeezed by loved ones in the kitchen where her grandmother cooks and bakes for all to enjoy. She feels the grain of the dining table, many memories of meals shared, prayers heard, and holidays celebrated. She looks into the living room and see the sun shining on the window decals, creating a perfect ray of light onto the floor. She knows every inch of this house, because every nook and cranny hold her most cherished memories. 

The angel was once asked what her home away from home was, and she would say this house over and over again. No home feels quite like her grandparents house. The old farm may have its faults, its chipping paint and creaky floors, but the memories held and history shared, no one can put a price on that.