Nostalgia

Rain descends again, and the smell of earthy decay, the slap of slip-slidy stones, the plop of raindrops on summer leaves, the cooling shift of air after rain transport me to childhood evenings at Redstone Camp on the Black Warrior River, where wooden boathouses opened into green sloughs, loosely-hung wooden doors fronted screen-porched cabins, and lightning bugs flickered their golden lanterns in cicada hummed darkness.

I am lucky to have spent so many days and nights there, and to have my father's old map hanging in the hall where I can see it even now: for real, and realer in my memory.