She doesn't think I see her, but I do. Oh, I do. The ramshackle lady in flimsy pink flip-flops is a ghost. Is a ghost. We all haunt the places we miss the most. Even when the body is bound up by the present day, the spirit struggles to have its way. It asks: "Is this our time?" Come home, come home. There are no more fields in which to roam.
Posted in Animals, Autumn, Change, Home, Loss, Love, Memory, Nature, Nostalgia, Observations, Pain, Peace, The Journey, Time, Travel
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