My mom’s parents lived in a big old farmhouse just outside Sturgis, MI when I was little. We visited a few times a year, and always spent a week there together in the summer. It was a magical place, and my longing for it returns sometimes unbidden. My grandpa hung a wooden swing with chain links from one of the pine trees. That swing is burned into my memory, the thought of it filling me with a powerful love for the things and the people I’ve lost.

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This place reminds me of you

Of how, as a little girl,

I would wander down the hill, counting pine cones,

Sit on the tree swing and look at the pool.

The tree was tall and fragrant

And it shaded me from any worry

Because I was safe there, with you,

In summer, when days are lazy

And there is nothing to do

But jump from rock to rock along the driveway

Pretending each one is a faraway planet

Or wander under the fruit trees behind the brick wall

Or among your gardens as the sun sank low.

I wonder now if you can see me

If you’d be proud of me

If you’d smile, watching me swing high into the sky

Thinking of that pine tree

Where I was safe and loved.