Hindsight is 20/20.
But I try really hard to create my own front-sight. What I imagine, I hope to create.
But what about my memories? The imagined ones that seem so real?
I can remember sitting in a blue 1970 Chevy pickup, my hair long and wavy, in a messy ponytail. It's end was flapping in the wind from the open windows. The sun was reflecting off my dashboard, warming my face. The road before me was dirt, green fields on either side of me. I could hear the circadias clicking in the trees as I drove. I relished the warm smile spreading across my face. My house was on the right, I was proud of it as I approached. A white farmhouse, it sat quaintly a couple hundred feet from the road. I pulled into my driveway, two tracks of worn down grass.
I already had on my mind the lemonade I made before I left. It sat cold in a glass pitcher in the fridge. I poured a tall glass and then made my way to the back porch. The hanging white wood bench welcomed me. With each swing, I let my sandal clad feet in the air. My long dress billowed and fell as I swung my feet. My focus was the large single tree in the field. I stared at it long and hard, letting my mind not focus, and wander.
The condensation on my glass was cold and wet. I let it drip onto my lap, the cold wet drops bringing me back to reality.
