The Spot

This is the spot where I used to stand. How I wish I could see it again as it was 30 years ago, the views, the fences, the lay of the land.

Minutes turned to hours here, even an afternoon. I would day-dream, swing a bat, or throw rocks. It always ended too soon.

The fence is gone and the road now paved. I miss the way it was, the cows, the dirt, the rocks, you know, back in the day.

I’d wait here to see Dad return from Al’s Diner in Mars Hill. The cloud of dust appeared a mile away and I’d hope there’d be a donut for me still.

The gullies are gone and the road is wider now. But I miss the rush of water from heavy rains or melting snow. Cleared by the grader’s plow.

I would play in the streams that might be gone the next day. The water wore away at the road, but in the trickle of water was a great place to play.

The pole on the other side was always my aim. From snowballs I’d pack, or stones I hit with an old bat, but mostly to throw rocks in one of my games.

I walked the line where the clover and the dirt met. And I spent hours out there letting my mind race, creating fun, wishing now never to forget.

I could see my uncle’s farm from here. And often times only the dog would beat me in announcing that someone was drawing near.

Behind me the tree was growing tall. The birds would holler. But often a brother or cousin would climb while those inside worried they’d fall.

This was the spot where I often played. This is where memories were made for me, and I could be there for hours, never afraid.

I drove out here before the service on Tuesday. I had only a moment, but I stopped and stood again in this place, I wish I could have stayed.