Washington, in the Pines

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My soul seems to be longing for somewhere I have not been in a long time. I say this because I went there in my dreams last night. Strange how the mind can do that—to cavort us off to an entirely different place while our body lies dormant, nestled safe under warm covers.

But in dreams, there are no limitations.

A new song I’d recently heard played—it seems as from heaven itself—as I drove along the familial dusty roads to a place that was entirely new to me. I found myself moving far off into the Huckleberry Mountains, where the pine trees circled me in all directions like giant, hushed sentinels, watching.

I needed to get away for a while, to be away from the hustle and bustle of everyday living. I just need a few moments alone.

And so I took them.

I breathed in scent of pitch, the bittersweet, sticky smell that coats your nostrils in an aroma that seems to whisper ‘home.’ I sat and listened to the sound of the wind as it passed through the needles the trees, a wispy, airy melody I remembered with fondness.

I found myself trudging the winding dirt roads of my childhood. Memories of my dad. Memories of my mom.

I awoke.

I laid silently in the early-morning darkness, allowing the images to burn themselves into my retinas, to seep in the shadowy pockets of my soul.

It is now 5:30 a.m., and I find myself longing to return.