The small honeysuckle vine behind the old barn tangled across the rotting boards and threaded itself into curlicues.
Fragrant evenings tangled butterflies into an invisible web of sweet gossamer summer air and captured the song of evening sparrows.
I climbed up to the rooftop to spy the edges of a thunderstrom approaching from the east as the old barn creaked under my weight.
Distant rumbling. Playground sounds with rampant children. Traffic noise. A freight train.
My grandmother's voice broke the natural meliflous wonder of being a fascinated child. "Terrrryyyyy".
Dinner was on the table.
"I'm coming Maw-Maw..." I trumpeted back like some eager Tarzan from the forest primeval.
Darkness would settle in to the pungent scent of the pitter pat against the window panes. Snare drum for the storm.
The wall of brilliant light glimmered toward Weatherford some miles away and the gasp of final sunlight crept sizzling into night.
I leaped froglike to the gravel below and rolled to soften the impact. Stuntman of the neighborhood, I am. I was. I remember.
Dashing on red tennis shoes crunching the ground and arriving like a bulletin or a telegram at the screen door I am a blur of motion.
I am home.....small bird to its nest.....fragile speck of life in a universe of time.
That chapter in my head is marked for remembrance.
Child that I once was flattened as a forget-me-not pressed in the pages of life's book.
Ages gone. Night of dreams.
Who is that ugly old man watching me in my silly reverie?
Oh. Just the mirror.