Spring

Spring must cultivate childhood memories. My mind starts to wander in the strangest places and I can’t stop returning to old times. These memories are usually related to my grandparents. Last week I focused on those enchanting visits to Grandma’s house in Clinton, Iowa. My brother, our cousins and I would play among the weeping willows and catch lightning bugs in the heat of the summer. We’d turn cartwheels and play tag in the fading light and then it was off the sleep. I’d settle into my fold-out bed in a room jam-packed with birdseed, folded sheets, clothes in storage and an old humming refrigerator. I’d listen to the late night tennis games being played in the tennis court across the gravel road. The heat was the heavy, humid kind, but I didn’t mind it much back then as I laid in bed listening to the crickets and the tennis balls. In fact, it was pretty close to perfect.