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Fara Kleinsasser is in the graduating glass of 2025 and is majoring in English at CUA. Fara never been published, as she has only just begun to write for the memories that won't be forgotten.
Run and slide, newly cleaned shining gold floor.
Old, chipped chestnut, hard to slide barefoot.
Burst through old screen door to back porch
Birds startled from feeder.
Quilts hung out to freshen in cool spring breeze,
Blues and greens fading in the sun.
Track 12 on John Denver CD plays:
“Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy,
Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry…”
Run down back steps, leap to grass prickly with white pine needles.
Trapeze-like swing from huge pine tree.
Swing and flip, alone, yet never lonely looking over the valley.
Dad’s swing - built just for me.
Slam of screen door, Mum throws old toast to birds.
My woods. My ridge. My valley.
Guitar floats through open windows:
“Talk of poems prayers and promises,
Things that we believe in…”
Run to chicken coop, quick before mean grey rooster sees,
Check for eggs, food, water.
Smell dead leaves, tree bark, dirt. Adventure calling.
Sneak into woods.
Sun shines through old oak trees behind farm shed into campsite.
Check firewood, hear Mum call.
Throw rocks down bank, listening to wind in trees:
“Life is old there, older than the trees,
Younger than the mountains, blowing like the breeze…”
Run through woods, over grass, up steps,
Push through creaking screen door.
Wind comes too, sending papers flying, scattered.
Stack of books for library on woodbox,
New book with hole in front cover, books read at night,
Under covers. Ruins eyes.
Follow golden sunlight floors to Dad and Mum’s room for mending,
Hear her in kitchen sing along:
“Sometimes this old farm feels like a long lost friend,
Yes and hey, it's good to be back home again…”
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