The sound of the wind, blowing through bare trees
Takes me back to Gilmanton.
I see the memory now, as an observer:
A small wooden table in Nana's garage,
Painted white and pastels, handcrafted by Grampy.
We sit, two small children, in tall chairs, feet swinging.
My sister, Thia, across the table,
Bowl-cut blond hair and happy concentration,
Coloring with crayons on large sheets of paper.
Looking out through the open door
Down the driveway to the thick forest across the street
The wind deeply sighing through the pines
Frightened by small-child thoughts
Of what lies hidden in the wilderness.
Safety just a few steps away
Through a homemade screen door with its long, squeaking spring
Don't let it slam shut as you enter the narrow hallway
Filled with the smell of fried doughnuts and baking beans,
Spices and baking and clean.
The smells of love,
The smell of Nana.