Let my life smell of pines and resound with the hum of insects.
R.W. Emerson (re-worded slightly)
They say familiar mountains will always call you back, and even though they are also changing, it is the change in yourself you will notice most.
This time of year, the trees are red and gold; their leaves swirl in mid-air, a lazy, final leap.
Some pines have fallen or been cut down, while young ones grow up in between. You will think of how much older you are, and of the things you have collected and brought with you: new habits and ideas, confidences and insecurities.
But you won't forget how those branches were once a ship at sea, or that hillside an entire village laid out with small stones. How you hid in the cylinder beneath the dirt road, building dams in the creek water that trickled from one side to the other. Or where you found the bleating orphaned fawn, and where you set it free again, after you'd kept it for awhile.
Your child plays in the woods like you once did, and you watch on, amazed.