Summers with Mary

Summer had a different sort of smell when I was young and spent that season with my Grandmother.

I read books and played with cut out dolls on the screened in back porch during the day.

The warm nights were full of lighting bugs and I never worried about mosquitoes.

The grass in her yard was soft, and so green. I haven’t seen such a green since the last memory I hold of those summers.

My mind doesn’t often take me back to those days. And I don’t often go back to my grandmother’s house, either.

She’s still there. But it’s not the same.

Maybe if I went back more often,
 
I’d visit those old memories more.

Or maybe I’d even make some new ones.

Perhaps I should.

Before every day with her is just a memory I don’t often visit.