And

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.