In my neck of the woods, if you look close you can see tell-tale signs of old home places as you ride down country roads.
A few daffodils in rows emerge each spring to show where some housewife marked her path from front porch to mailbox. A crepe myrtle looks out of place in the woods but often has a twin if you know where to direct your gaze.
People always leave a trace…
The ground disturbed deep down
Grains of sand and clumps of clay long buried brought to the surface.
years go by-
Rain and wind and sun and patient Nature smooth it out
Until only the most observant see the damage done.
Barely noticeable-the penetrating wound.
A mother’s heart.
Time does not erase the place.
How can it when it hides her child?