As I pan across the landscape,
I laugh, this isn’t real.
I look to where the two oak trees
tower over my little country farmhouse.
Their giant leafy branches just barely
brushing the edge of the tar-black roof.
I could see myself sitting on one of the
wide branches, a book open in my lap.

This isn’t real.
I could see the wide, green lawn
stretching like a wavy sea
across the flatlands.
My father would take my little brothers
outside for a game of football,
played amongst the tall blades.
They would roll in the grass,
energetic little puppies,
eager to romp and cavort.

I glance over to where the farmhouse
stood stark white against the green and brown fields.
The front porch bench, swinging ever so slightly
in the breeze, home to many nights of star gazing
and warm family moments.
My mother would throw her head back, laughing
so hard as she spoke about her nutty father
after she’d sipped a few glasses of wine.
My brothers and I would fall about the front porch
giggling about our sailor-swearing, bumbling
grandfather whom we’d never met, but imagined
from mother’s stories.

Throwing my hands up in the air,
I still laugh, falling to my knees
on the fresh dirt.
My cheeks burned from smiling so hard,
and tears streamed down my face in salty rivers.
I couldn’t help but laugh, looking upon the landscape
now foreign to me after the storm had passed.
This isn’t real, I think through gasps for air.
My home was still there and so were the fields
and the animals.
This was just my un-reality,
and everything was as it should be.


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