Yesterday evening my husband and I took a drive to a little house in the woods, only a few miles away, where he, his parents, and his 7 brothers and sisters spent their summers. It's really nothing more than a tiny little shack in the middle of the woods, but to hear him speak of those times, it's as if they all went to the most wonderful, exotic place on earth every summer. They didn't have electricity or anything, and they got their food fresh from all of the farmers who lived nearby. They didn't have a car at that time, and his father would drive them all there, one by one, on his little moped. When he talks of those innocent days of childhood his eyes light up and I can see that child, still there, underneath the exterior adult shell that he carries.

I wrote a poem this morning about driving through those woods. It's been a very long time since I've tried my hand at poetry, so it is perhaps a bit rough around the edges.


Driving through the countryside

Driving through the countryside
to the place of childhood dreams
where my sweetheart spent long summer days
dancing in the streams

I saw my sweet small angel there
tucked in behind a tree
he smiled and waved and as he played called
"Mama, look! I'm free!"

Behind him was his grandmother
with smiling big blue eyes
she scooped him up and kissed his cheek
they both waved their good-byes

The tears came flowing down my face
but they were not tears of pain
they were tears of hope and promise
that I will see them both again

And as we left that sacred place
that place of innocent dreams
my son played where his father had
dancing in the streams

Lisa J.
May 10, 2006