To me it's not history;
it seems like the other end of one of those
moving walkways in airports.
I feel like if I really wanted to I could turn around
and run back and everything would be
just the way I left it.
And if I touch it, that part of my life will simply start again,
right where it left off.
Great Grandpa Earl's garden sheds,
the broken window by the service door on Cambridge Drive in Michigan,
the parquet floor on the stage in Warroad, Minnesota,
and a kiosk selling little packages of flan in Santiago Chile Lindo.
I never could eat flan again, because of the ants.
And then again in Minnesota -
the oak pews in the Waconia chapel and
the painted carpets in the orchestra pit in Chaska.
And a little Sunday School classroom in Oakton, Virginia.
And you will be there, waiting,
because in my mind you're all still there,
exactly where I left you.
And I'm keeping you there in my mind, and
you aren't lost or gone because
good things are never lost, and
those were really good things.
