Yesterday

Brian Hathcock

When I close my eyes and think about my youth, this is what I feel: cold and awake. I remember fall most fondly. Skies were blue, the trees riots of color. The sun fell down each day with a thrust of the most clear and elaborate displays. The world was dancing. There was, literally and figuratively, something in the air.

A thick wooden swing was the centerpiece in my grandparents' backyard. It was blue and probably homemade. Just behind the swing was planted a mammoth tree that grew into an umbrella for the house and yard. My grandfather and I would sit, think, and talk under that tree. My arms and legs would mimic his movements and I would pretend to be older. I watched his giant hands bend a pocket knife around sticks until they were pristinely white. I remember once he made a toy for me in this way.

Now the toy is in a chest and my grandfather is gone. I'm grateful for days like this. When I look up through the leaves and the bright autumn sky, I still feel like I did on those days. I still mimic him.


[Story added on July 15, 2007.]