by Christa B.
I remember the soft, warm glow of the fire in the hearth.
The smell of Autumn leaves, dirt, and earth.
I remember the chillness of the wind against my cheek.
The warmth on my back from the sun, and heat.
I remember the way that nature smelled, and hearing the birds singing.
The sound of the church bells on Sunday kept on ringing.
I remember the sun streaming through the crack in my window as it danced upon my face.
The hollow hole in the big oak tree, which I used as my secret hiding place.
I remember hearing fish as they jumped across the creek.
Leaves as they fell in piles and heaps.
I remember my mother brushing the tangles out of my hair.
The bees as they buzzed from flower to flower, and flew through the air.
I remember all these things, but now I lie here stone cold dead in my grave.
My mother comes and brings fresh flowers, and weeps beside me day by day.