my place on the hill

Honestly, I don't remember a lot.

I don't remember what it smelt like or how the air tasted or even really what I was doing there.  I don't know if I was overwhelmed or happy.  I'm not sure why I was alone.

I remember the mountains, though.
I remember my leaky truck.  
I remember the lights and the lake and rolling down the hill in the summer.

And I'm not sure what I thought there, or why I always tried to make that hill my favorite place.

All I know is, I would give up a lot of days and grilled cheese sandwiches to sit up on my hill again. 

I'd walk to my car and roll down the window, even though it's winter and it's cold.  And I'd drive, and I'd drive, and I'd drive... just to sit on my hill, just to see the lights, just to be home... 

Just to drive right back.

And maybe it doesn't really matter what happened there.  Maybe it doesn't really matter if it smelt like rain or if it smelt like cut grass.  

Maybe the only thing that matters is that it took me when I was overwhelmed, and it took me when I was happy.  Maybe the only thing that matters is, it was the home that gave me the stars. 


-Linds