My childhood was spent in a house in the mountains,
Second exit to the right and straight up the winding, dirt road.
I can still smell the poppies and pine trees.
I can still see the glimmers of mica catching the sun in the flower beds.
I would hug the trees as if they were my friends and drink the air as if it were my favorite tea.
It was an adventure.
I sometimes wonder if my grandfather’s laugh still permeates the halls,
and if the smell of a thousand Christmas mornings emanate from its walls.
I never got to say goodbye.
I suppose saying goodbye would mean to go away and forget,
and I can never forget.