In the crimson hue of morning, I walked amid the neglected fields of my childhood. Instead of finding comfort there, a sense of despair engulfed me. With the tempests of the changing years, the peaceful trails of my youth had vanished. The paths that I roamed as a child could no longer be found among the tangled wild growth that crawled in wild abandon over the landscape.

I wandered to the familiar acre of land where my childhood home once stood. My heart quickened when I gazed at the remains of what I once called “home”. It was now a decaying mass of wood and misty cobwebs. Nothing remained that was important to me as a child. In anguish, I fled the abandoned wreckage with the words, “You can’t go home again”, echoing in my mind.

On my journey back to the city, I became lost in memories. Tears flooded my face as I recalled that small house once filled with children and laughter. It was a place where I loved, and was loved in return-a special place, not merely four walls and an old tin roof. Actually…home wasn’t a place to me anymore- it was a feeling!

I had returned home after all, and the shortest route was though my memory. The joys of youth were buried deep within the recesses of my heart. Maybe daydreams and memories aren’t as good as reality, but sometimes they come very close. We can go home if we simply close our eyes and walk through the wonder-filled days of youth, remembering well the special people who have touched our lives. These mental treasures are forever etched in gold.

As we grow older, we cherish and savor the hours of our childhood even more. The moments seem to have vanished so fast, like a fleeting rainbow or grains of sand trickling though the hourglass. Yet, with God’s help, we can throw open the door to memory’s storehouse and they are preserved for us there to be enjoyed again, much like the delights of Summer captured in Mason jars and re-opened to be enjoyed after the season has passed.

I go home often now; I have a special map. Letting my memory take me back past adulthood to those endearing paths of my childhood, it’s easy to return. When the present intermingles with that warm feeling of “belonging” that I knew as a child, I know I’m home again.

Copyright © 2007 Barbara Cagle Ray