Sparks of Nostalgia

Anticipation fills my body and forces a beaming smile.
My excitement is barely containable.
My retreat, my second home, my refuge, my family cabin.
The urban chaos grows further behind me.
When I reach the dirt road, a montage of childhood memories
stream through mind with the car tires rhythmic bumps over stone.
Laughing, twirling, swimming. Unabashed delicious immaturity.
I can already smell the balmy earthiness of the lakeside fauna,
I feel the warmth of sunlight on my eight year old face.
Upon closer inspection you're still as rustic and charming as ever.
I close my eyes and take in your wooden, yet palpable presence.
I sit on a nearby log, Iand see the ghost of my favorite tire swing.
It's been years since that branch let me to fly towards the clouds,
and then down back to earth again.
I can still feel the stickiness on my hand.
The sweetness on my tongue from the ever present
chocolate ice cream cone gripped tightly in hand.
Your wear could certainly be noticed by the view of a stranger.
The ripped screen door, the scuffs across the kitchen floor.
The traces from my sister and I chasing each other about.
Yet to me, you'll always embody a time capsule of treasured youth.
Years that couldn't be revisited quite as clearly
without a helping hand.

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