A truck tire swings from the low branch of a magnolia tree, awaiting the laughter of small boys returned from a slow afternoon of creek fishing. An apple pie cools on the window sill while chicken pieces crackle in hot grease, and biscuits stay warm beneath a yellow-checkered towel.
White lace curtains sway in a southern breeze scented by apple and cherry blossoms. The white rocking chair creaks on the white porch beside a hanging swing-seat cushioned in a rose covering. Chickens scratch lazily in the dirt and a milking cow lows softly from the barn.
It is so close I can almost touch it, this dream. The smells tickle my nose and the sights tear my eyes. It’s not a new dream. The mists roll in off the mountains and whisper to my senses. I have never, not known this place that wavers at the edges of my consciousness. My name has lingered on its winds and through its rustling leaves until I could no longer deny the calling.
It’s there, just beyond my fingertips. What keeps it from my grasp? I write to quiet the voices, and I chase this dream to still the images that race and disturb reality. Soon, they will merge and create certainty. Or is it mere fantasy?
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