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Fuzzy at the Edges
Sep. 8th, 2009 10:57 amThis place is a memory. Fuzzy. Warm at the edges. Comforting. A retreat. I might remember the cool dewy grass and the warm, smiling sun. I might remember the moist feeling of my puppy licking my face, her soft fur tickling my cheek. I might remember my playhouse and swing set, an outdoor stuffed animal tea party, the wind in my hair and the whoosh of the trees around me.
I won’t remember the diseased trees, the ones with rotting cores, the ones whose leaves turned gray in the spring. I won’t remember the spiders in my playhouse, the occasional scorpion, how my swing set creaked and the screech that no amount of WD-40 could silence. I won’t remember the heat, the stifling heat, the swarms of gnats so thick they could literally suffocate you. I won’t remember my dog’s rancid breath or damp smell. I won’t remember burying her near the stump of the rotten tree and selling my toys in the garage. Because this place is a memory, and fuzzy at the edges.
I won’t remember the diseased trees, the ones with rotting cores, the ones whose leaves turned gray in the spring. I won’t remember the spiders in my playhouse, the occasional scorpion, how my swing set creaked and the screech that no amount of WD-40 could silence. I won’t remember the heat, the stifling heat, the swarms of gnats so thick they could literally suffocate you. I won’t remember my dog’s rancid breath or damp smell. I won’t remember burying her near the stump of the rotten tree and selling my toys in the garage. Because this place is a memory, and fuzzy at the edges.
