When I visit my brother and sister-in-law, I drive past a wee patch of land, abandoned years ago leaving behind the deep scar of a house and the gentle presence of past lives. I’ve no doubt a farm once graced this corner and I wonder what caused the demise of so charming a place. Could it be the railroad that slices through farmland like two, never-ending silver swords or was there some other catastrophe that befell the living, breathing homestead?
Amidst soft bird calls and the wind whispering through pines there's signs that someone once surrounded their home with the simplicity of country life.
Apple trees were planted that brought white petals falling like snow in May
I'd like to think that the freckled look of cherry trees blooming pink brought smiles of contentment and thoughts of cherry pies
I'm sure someone opened a window of the long-gone house filling it with a clean, sweet fragance from lilacs growing nearby.
The only structure left standing are the skeletal remains of a windmill that once upon a time, caught Ohio breezes with paddles whirring echoing a song over plowed fields.
There's something romantically haunting about abandoned houses, barns, and farms that invites wool-gathering moments. In my mind's eye I visualize how it might have been with chickens scratching, cows lowing in a nearby pasture, freshly laundered sheets billowing out like sails on a sea of green, and the laughter of children as they swing higher and higher, almost touching the sky.
The dandelions are reclaiming this bit of earth, but I'll be back for lilacs in bloom and another peek into the past.
