Wind rushes through my hair as I stand at my mother’s old home.
It has been so many years since I have stood on this stop.
With wind hushing in my ears,
And ruffling my hair

And yet still I remember the small things that happened here.
Momma would go over to the garden every night when the crickets creaked
And she would get fresh vegetables for supper.
And I would help
I would pull the corn from their stalks and hear the rip of the corn and let
it thump into my basket.
Then I would carry the corn with momma back the house
As we got close to home we heard the dogs braking and the chickens clucking
in they’re pen.
We’d open our creaky old screen door to a room full of smells,
My older Sister Becca always started the cooking before momma and me got
back from cornfield.

The stove would be bubbling and the fireplace cracking merrily away.
After dinner Becca, Susan, and me would go out with Pa.
He always smelt like sweet hay and grass from working in the fields.
And he’d put us all under a quilt and tells us stories under the stars, the
moon shinen’ down on us . I always fell asleep first and I knew I was at
home when I heard the thump, thump, thump of Pa’s boots on the floor of the
house.

Then he’d lay me on my sister’s bed and Momma would help me undress into my
nightgown and then Momma would sing us all to sleep.
Those where the good ol’ days.


 
Copyright © melody, All Rights Reserved