Highland Park

Countless steps, days long gone. The warmth of his arthritic hand held tiny mine. We stopped together, listened to a bird proudly sing for a mate. I craned my neck following where he pointed. There, high up, the warbling song came from a speck in a huge tree, its branches eerie, beautiful.

Our walk resumed. I understand now, his was a trip down memory lane, what is left to me. Stories of daughters, lilacs, picnics, and sleds. A gust. A shower of propeller seeds covered us. A deep bass laugh rumbled. We: contented in belonging.

“Don’t forget your roots.”



Picture is copyright by Rich Engelbrecht.


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