Living in a big city is not who I am but life doesn't always give us what we want I remember Grandma's Montana farm and I go there in my mind when things are rough Grandma was a little thing, not five feet tall, but she had the courage of a lion all her years We went there to live when I was five years old I was dying from the coastal air and was very frail My brother was a baby and the apple of my eye We rode there in a chartreuse Ford, bundled into blankets...there were no seatbelts back then The wonder of all that 100 acres to roam and play Chickens so sweet clucked round my little feet The geese, Candy and Dandy, were terrorists, hiding behind the root cellar and darting out to chase me to the outhouse beyond the shed Rosie the runaway horse chased cars Grandpa made flapjacks and those not eaten were put on the cupboard and I ate them cold... Maybe heaven will be my Grandma's farm...
It was it's own little world in it's day But in this time forty acres not much Old house and out buildings hauled away Just something to plow around treated as such What once was here the plow can't touch
A tear in the dirt a cry in the wind As the big field machines move now Dust sting my face when the plow begin As if to say you should not allow More than dirt went under the plow
Here I stood with ***** crystals beneath my feet and waited for the sky to turn golden. Here I laughed into the echoing tunnel under my home as wet earth dripped on my skin. Here I learned about parenthood among feathers and little eggs and ungodly morning crows. Here I gloated about the manhood which sprouted from under my arms and in my mischievous thoughts. Here I waited till dark to meet him in secret all the while dreading the sound of tires on gravel. Here I buzzed with excitement as the boys had their lazy Sunday afternoon. Here his freckles came close to mine as he softly said "you're so beautiful" with Bruno Mars playing in the background. Here I said I would never grow up. Here I comforted her with my pain because I had to be brave. Here I forgot that being called "muddy children who act like savages " was considered an insult. Here I cried into the stars for reasons I didn't understand. Here I walked on hands and feet with happy little scratches and silent giggles. Here only the sound of our beating hearts and delicate pride could be heard as I held him close. Here I sang at the top of my favorite tree and waited for the words to hurt him as much as he hurt me. Here the glow of a flashlight illuminated our tent as I asked her if she liked me like that. Here a little piece of me was left sitting on a branch waiting to capture the next magical heart. Here I wrote "I love you" on a mango leaf only to realize that he spelled love differently. Here I sat beneath bright green trees and pondered my not-so-complicated life. Here my words came out blurry and my stomach swayed like a sail boat out on a windy morning. Here my hands went numb as I raced to the end of his life. Here I visit through pictures and messy journals to remember the little things that are now so so big. Here I left muddy footprints now covered with grass, but here they will stay.