When I was a young girl, we would take our yearly summer trip to visit my grandparent’s house. They lived in South Georgia where dirt roads gently suggested a way through the landscape. The drive up to their house was a dusty one; to pass the time, we would hang our arms out of the car windows. After allowing the air to manipulate their movement, we would pull them back in to find them covered in red clay, the tiny hairs raised up, cemented wherever the winds had placed them.
Our mornings began with a large breakfast that featured the fresh eggs we had recently gathered from the hens. After breakfast, it was chores: slopping pigs with leftovers, cleaning fish that had been caught that morning, picking tomatoes, and preparing lunch (an even bigger meal). When all was done, we would sit together on the front porch; if I was lucky I got to sit on the large swing next to grandma or grandpa.
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As I write this poem, I reminisce of the sweetest thoughts and my mind methodically rocks back and forth with the rhythm of that swing. Those short summer trips began in me a soulful song. I now have my own farm, and every time I go to collect the eggs, or pluck a fresh cherry tomato from its vine, I think of my grandparent’s and I thank them for the Memory of Summer .
Saturday, December 19, 2020