Here and There

Here I scribbled a picture of my doggy and kitty with purple crayons on the living room wall.
Here I bubbled with pride as I scaled a tree, a fallen Nebraska cottonwood, for the first time.
Here I played t-ball on the purple team.
Here I hobbled along on my bike that was freed from the training wheels.
Here I unearthed my love for science, watching heat from my grandma's lamp melt a plastic toy.
Here I lied to my aunt that it was not me who created the green, plasticky mess on the carpet.
Here I built, with architectural skills of a second grader, a treehouse crafted with old barn wood.
Here I fell through an unsturdy board of a treehouse.
Here I waited patiently for when I would be lifted on shoulders for the game-winning interception
Here I cackled at my impromptu horror stories while my cousins shivered with fear.
Here I learned to drive on a muddy 210 St. in a grey Ford Taurus.
Here I listened to cackling fireworks, innocent child play as we said goodbye under July stars.
Here I snatched my diploma and walked off the stage one last time.
Here I had an epic summer.
Here I end this journey at a place that once seemed a very far off there.
Here I start a new journey there, using the knowledge gained from the last journey.
Here I pull up that grey Taurus in a parking lot in front of a dorm.

Ha