Returning To My Childhood Yard

I walked to the backyard of my childhood home, and was surprised with a gorgeous garden. No cinder pile, no tire swing, no cottonwood trees, no tree house, no dirty lumber, and no shed. No proof we had ever been here. A gloriously beautiful weeping almond tree held me spellbound, causing a myriad of emotions in me. This is what our backyard could have been, but never was. A man in overalls waved me over. I explained who I was, and asked permission to look around. He did not recognize my name, So I tried the names of every neighbor I remembered, and I remembered them all. My child’s heart smiled as I remembered spying on them for hours from my tree house perch. I remembered the huts we built, digging to China in the ditch, and so many other terrific adventures. I asked permission to walk around and he nodded his head, hospitality continued to be the norm here. Was anything left of us? The warm sun loved me, as I walked, looking for any sign that we had ever lived in our family's homestead. Three generations of living here, and what had we left? At last, I discovered a solitary purple violet by our oak tree; it smiled, remembering me.