NaPoWriMo 8: Porch Swing

It's far off in the woods, they warned me.

And we don't go around there much.

I'm going anyway.

The road is overgrown and worn.

Trees droop over me.

Reaching across to greet each other.

I see it. 

My home.

Not quite as I remember it.

Back in the day, mama had it painted white, with green shutters.

Now the wood is rotten and an unholy shade of grey.

I recall the many happy hours spent swinging on the porch swing.

Counting birds and mice and bees.

But it seems time has taken those memories.

As the swing itself is nowhere to be seen.

I wonder: if I went in, would the rooms be the same?

Will papa's chair still rock in the corner?

Will my own bed still squeak upstairs?

I shake my head.

I'll keep the memories alive.

And walk away.

a.d. (reminiscent of childhood)