Memory

It's sunny again; the hills are glowing and green, salted with daisies and touched by purple wild flowers. Some small, singing creature is buzzing and chirping among the tall grasses, and the nostalgic humming unfolds layers of June memories in the warm air. The pluming mauve frond at the head of each meadow grass stem is like a long sunset cloud, rippling with the wind and glistening under the light of a golden sun--how many sunsets have I watched out here again? The giant bushes of scotch broom are a lacework of clustered yellow blossoms and dark green threads weaving webs. They foreshadow each year's firework display over the river, and the tiny, bright dandelions close to the ground are their reflections. We look out the big front window in the morning to see how the dew-drenched scotch broom profusion has grown, but we watch the fireworks bloom and  fade  in a single hour of summertime wonder. The fir trees are bending and blowing with each gust of cool spring wind, almost exactly the way they did on that first afternoon when we came here to look at the property, but a big house has sprung up at the top of the hill, and the road is no longer a strip of gravel, but a real paved driveway. Still, though, there are lots of things that haven't changed, and maybe they never will. Things like the shiny green oak leaves, the moss crusting the path back through the woods, and the small scars we gave the  Climbing Tree when we were building forts with the lowest branches. I look at these, and listen to the crickets and the robins, and feel that the sunshine is back again.