Light on the Hill
I miss living on the family farm. It helps that my father still works and lives on a farm, but I miss the one I grew up on. I miss the old hills that I used to climb, especially the one behind our house. I would sit up there for hours, looking over our farm and the one neighboring us. I would dream of becoming rich and famous so I could build my parents a new house at the top of that hill.
I miss the old woods. I would trek out there at least once a week in the summer, getting lost in the shade of pine trees. I would daydream in there for hours, imagining the magical beasts and mythical beings who must have lived out there and hid when I came near.
I miss the stream that ran through the pasture. I would spend hours catching crayfish or digging for fossils. On hot summer days, I would wade through the cool water and, on wetter years, would put on my bathing suit and sit in the middle of deep swimming holes.
I miss the lower pasture with its twin willow trees. They were huge, overhanging the stream in tendrils of leaves that seemed like curtains that protected me from the outside world. One of the trees had been struck by lightning; it was split down the center and it's massive limbs lay on the ground, perfect benches when one needed to rest.
I miss it all. How silly I was to have wished it all away in the trivial passions of my youth.