Bridge

Across the bridge, home.

Over dinner this evening, mom mentioned the tall trees in the garden of our Chorleywood house. I was probably about five then and the trees seemed so tall, towering over everything. I remember them swaying gently with the breeze, like gentle giants dancing to a slow number. I can still hear the sound of branches creaking and leaves rustling. Cold crisp air froze my nostrils as I inhaled, filling my lungs wih life. Most of all, I remember the smell. The smell of a bright autumn day. I miss those trees and those memories.