Visiting my memory today of some favorite visits. I could not think of just one to write about.
Visiting my grandparents in the mountain cabin. Looking at the clouds laying in foot after foot of snow. Snowmobiles and fire pits that burned several feet deep while watching races. Playing in the woods. Finding the old treehouse. Walking the tracks with grandma and grandpa, picking up glass bottles and arrowheads. Swinging on the rope and 2x6 swing hanging from a tree limb. Playing in the creek.
Visiting the graves of those beloved, getting advise from the grave. I swear to this day that I had heard her voice telling me to get back home where I belonged. Visiting the windswept hill where we laid their bodies, asking questions that we would never have answered. And missing them as the tears flowed.
Visiting back through time with photographs of all the fun we had, the days they would sit and play cards or just talking with the smoke filtering around them. Remembering as I look at one picture where I sit with my head on grandpas chest, how his voice rumbled from deep down, and how comforting that was. Pictures of grandma surrounded by others, so many times laughing at this story or that. And always feeling loved.
So many visits... too many to count in such a short time.