It was a small house on a big lot. There was nothing fancy, nothing grand about this place.
The gardens were not formal. They were wild and over grown and endless amounts of work. I could see digging was a nightmare, that heavy black gumbo, hard as rock, only a crazy person would dream what was once a cotton field, could be anything else.
Just down the drive on it's dead end street were relatives and neighbors who were always in and out.
Roses were grown, pets buried, fights started and ended. Tragedies and triumphes were always shared.
Flying barefoot out the front door, down the brick walk and into the park to explore was the most one could do.
Nature was the only thing that entertained. The big sky was your dream maker and the hot humid land always kept you in your place.
So it's been five years since this house was sold, all the contents of sixty years divided and sorted. The previous occupant's resettled and doing fine, realist that they are. Things change and one must let go, became the verse.
I had a dream last night and in it, I heard the verse, like a echo. One must, one must let go.. So I too, am a realist. I know the gardens are gone, the house disfigured, and a new modern family has settled in. I only hope that the new family can give thanks, for living, loving, being raised, and dreaming in that little house on the big lot full of memories.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
