It’s as if you find yourself walking a familiar path, entering old cobbled stones that you used to walk on and you’d lay on the grass, no matter how badly kept they were.
A small portion of your heart is fixated within the small gates, like a small chest concealing great memories. That memories when you walked the halls in tattered whispers or indefeaning yells; the memories wherein you found yourself staring at the place that nurtured (and still nurtures) you. The small house, that wasn’t vaguely big enough, but in all means, big enough the occupy a large part of what you are.
The home, that I miss.
If I could, I would count the several hundred happy days that I created. And the several hundred days that I longed for. Opening doors and providing excellence; governing your wondrous traits and your unexplored beauty. That you have yet to discover—and in fact, they know you would.
Staring at rickety old trees, is a beauty in all things that lasts long. Watching me grow from a young bouncing child—that worries about nothing but the dirt on my soles and the recess on hold—to me, to I. The young battered and matured old mind that warred my to bombs and shotguns and stabs of all sorts. I am me, because you made me.
And here I am, standing at the old stomping place that honed us, before we were the greats.
And I’ll find myself longing for that old cobbled stone path and badly kept field and eerily loud hallways that housed great things.
And you’ll live, knowing that you still belong there.