Roses

Tonight I remember the fake wood on the walls of my childhood bedroom. The off-white wrought iron bed frame stood against them in the corner. Opposite were pink walls brushed with white as though to look like roses.

How do I explain the smell of my room when the windows stayed open all night, without bringing you along to the past?

The air was never sticky or humid and the temperatures dropped low without the sun, even in the summer. Cows parading below the second-story window each morning and I would lay in bed and watch them as I awoke.

The pastures,
The grass, the dirt, and my clean sheets.
The wooden floors of a house built in 1906, stained and varnished over and over again. The grainy feel they had from a lack of sanding.

The lacy bed cover atop my pink blanket on my bed and cool, crisp sheets underneath.

Long hours into the night when I could not sleep; this is when the gold-plated light on my stand would keep me and my books company as we ventured along trails and traveled miles together.

Tonight I am here, writing these words and hoping to travel long miles backwards, to remember a time when sights and smells and touch were all that comprised life. There were no harsh feelings, there were no burdens too heavy, there were only moments to capture and hide away.