There is always a breeze here and there’s a white gazebo in the shade of the house it is all as perfect as it would appear to Norman Rockwell In the back, there’s a flowerbed the names of the flowers, I don’t recall and perhaps never knew; but the names on the headstones that sleep there I’ve always known and I will remember them until my name is worked into a rock as well Over here used to be nothing, but now there is a taller than tall apple tree as old as I am and twice as wise I come here sometimes when life gets too congested and I need to breathe or sometimes just when I have nothing else to do but think and write about things I don’t know
I sit back in the gazebo pretending to admire the comforting cornfield’s endlessness like the simple man I sometimes wish I was I imagine I believe in God or at least, Heaven and pretend to feel them looking down at me I smile at myself on their behalf I think about all the years my grandpa spent building that house and the stories he told me, my father, about the kind of mother she was and I think it would make them happy to know that someone hasn’t forgotten about the place that, for some reason, I can’t quite figure out, always has this breeze