My lost Home

A two-door red pick up 

Grinding to shift gears

Popping of grease on the cast iron skillet

As he burns salted ham

Aftershave and a small comb

Tucked into his flannel pocket

The pond where he taught me to fish  

Reflecting in the humid air

Morning mist on my arms 

Waking up before the sun to visit the farm

Playing in the creek at the bottom of the hill

Returning with handfuls of Fool’s Gold