Memories Of Our Youth

Rusty nails and memories.

We were there. The rusty nails that once anchored the tree house, still cling to the tree. We drove those nails with no thought of the future, or who might notice them in decades to come. We laughed and lived for the moment. We left an old horse shoe wedged in the fork of the tree for good luck. It is a quieter place now, but if you listen carefully as you look up into the trees, you know we were there.