Memory Lane

One morning, when I was twenty-two years old, I jumped out of bed and ran to the window to gaze out over "The Lane," as I called it. I loved everything about my walks down this special path, for my journeys were full of beauty, solitude, and communion with my Maker. This particular morning, as the sun peeked her head over the horizon, I was overcome with emotion and memories.

I had a favorite Calico cat named Missy, who was my constant companion. More than anything, we shared a love for taking strolls down The Lane. I would gently pick her up, and she would make her way up to my shoulders to wrap herself around the back of my neck. Oh, how I loved those beautiful summer days, feeling the lush soft grass under my bare feet and my patchwork-quilt companion around my neck. I would often pause and gaze up ahead as we started our journey. My eyes would follow The Lane as it stretched downward toward the bottom of the field. From there, it climbed steadily until it gradually disappeared on the horizon.

To one side of The Lane stood a field of corn, and there were many times that the wind would blow and rustle the leaves of the stalks as we walked by, as if to applaud our coming. Adjacent to the cornfield was a pasture full of horses who quietly nickered their "hello" to us as we sauntered by. Halfway down the path stood my favorite tree, an old massive oak that I named the "fireplace tree," for the bottom of the trunk was hollowed out in the shape of a hearth. When I was very young, I would leave letters inside of the tree, thinking they would stay there forever and that someday, when I was older, I would come back to read them.

From there, The Lane climbed steadily upward to an old bladeless windmill with a rusted-out, but functional, pump underneath it. "The Tower," as I called it, seemed to be a monument that marked this place as special.

There was something so holy about where The Lane led and the atmosphere surrounding it. As we stood on the top of this knoll, we could see for miles around to all the neighboring fields and woods, and I would pause to hear God's whisper in the gentle fluttering of the trees. I often felt as if we were on the top of the world overlooking all creation, and it was here that I would sit down and carry on serious discussions with my Creator. Many times, the wind would blow gently across my face and I always believed it to be the kind hand of God caressing my cheek. I recall the Angora-soft milkweed that grew near The Tower in the fall. I would make a wish, blow the fluffy seeds into the wind, and watch them gently float away.

In the winter, it became my family's sledding hill. We even had nighttime toboggan rides as we were pulled behind our neighbor's tractor, often times harmonizing our voices in song, as the full moon would light our way. I can still see the faces of my neighbors, parents, and siblings as the moonbeams created glowing silhouettes against the pure white snow.

In the spring, I remember the freshly-plowed fields with their deep rich Earth smell, and the dandelions as they burst open and dotted the landscape with yellow.

I slowly came back to the present and took one last look at The Lane. The skyline still held a pink tint where the sun had just risen. The mist gathered from the floor of the pathway, swirled upwards, and disappeared. In my mind's eye, I could see her. The little blonde-haired girl with the patchwork-quilt cat draped around her neck. She was smiling at me as she stopped and waved. And then, just as the vapor slowly gathered and disappeared, so did my image of her. I mouthed the words, "Goodbye," choked back my emotions, and stooped to gather the delicate, white lace bridal gown in my arms. It was only then that I noticed my mother had been watching me. I looked at her through my tear-filled eyes, and she tenderly returned my gaze. Finally, she turned away to hide her tears, and said in a low voice, "See you at the church."

--Kristi Powers