We drove today, into the country, under cloudy skies, past fields of corn, dry and dying, and past sunflowers with their heads hanging low.
To a homestead, lonely and unfinished, filled with tales of lives lived years ago. Past dreams, gone, past lives ended.
Children's laughter a distant memory, lives busy with work of the hand gone. Families moved on.
The remnant of their lives left to tell their story.
Did they laugh a lot, run the mile to the mail box, pick the flowers from the garden beds?
Did they scrape the mud from their work boots as they came in at dusk?
Lives lived many years ago, just memories now, tales to be told of times long gone.
And as we drove home another memory kept, why maybe just so we will remember those gone before us.
I love a Sunday Drive.