The Half We've Known: The Days

Buried underneath, nearly suffocating with the sweet, pungent smell...

We thought it'd be fun to jump into the wheelbarrow before the adults pitchforked and raked the pine straw in. We giggled at first, delighting in our mischievousness. But the pine straw scratched, the smell was strong, and our eyes started to water.

We climbed out quickly.

Raking the leaves at my neighbors house was always fun. I never understood why my parents took it so seriously. To them, it was an objective, a mission, I suppose. To us, it was play.

Ask us about missions and objectives, we would have shown you the Moss Cities we had built that summer underneath the big tree.

Ask us about missions and objectives, we would have shown you the slivers of branches we stripped with our small pocket knives "for the birds" while we swung in the giant wisteria tree.

Ask us a few years later, we would have shown you the fort, behind the zip-line and across the ditch, with a secret entrance and a "clay pit" that we were sure would make us rich.
Actually, we probably wouldn't have shown you that.

Those were the days. 

The days of sweet things, and sour things. Things I can still feel, and smell, and taste, even, if Memory Lane isn't too muddy.

The days when my only concern is whether or not Mama would catch us filthy kids running through the cool sheets on the clothes line.

The days I could go barefoot well into October.

When the best conditions for climbing the Bradford tree were right after dinner, before the sun set and before Dad called us in to do the dishes.

These are the days I still have dreams about, still long for, still miss.

Fall isn't the same when you grow up. And that makes me sad.