A Cortland apple in one hand, a stick in the other, and a dog at my side, it was here that I whiled away every golden autumn afternoon of a gloriously slow childhood.
And so it was last week, the tail-end of October, that I paid a visit.
The sumac is ablaze with color against the October clouds and sky, just as I remember.
Asparagus continues to grow wild, making a show of itself bejeweled with rain drops.
The glacial moraine on which the old farm rests still yields tiny fossils.
The absence of the barn is sad. It's the one change I'll never get used to.
The space where the barn once nestled into a gentle slope is the emptiest place I've ever seen, and yet it is the sharpest reminder of home.
Memory is actually pretty magical.
Thank you to Hilary, of The Smitten Image, for honoring this post.