Ghosts of the Past

Taking a car ride upstate;With a very good friend;We drove through the town;Where as a child, I grew;My family left there; Back in the summer of 1969;But my heart stayed there;Frozen forever in time;We stopped for awhile;The post office was still on the corner;And I saw the huge bell;In front of the little white church;Where we went every Sunday;In the back of my mind;I could still hear the booming voice;Of the God-fearing reverend;Literally scaring the hell;Out of the mesmerized congregation;My feet crunched under fallen leaves;The paintbrush of autumn;Was gloriously present;As I made my way;To the old schoolhouse;And I stood there for a moment;I felt the chill of winter air;And heard the din created;By two hundred kids standing in line;I put my arms around one of the pillars;And my eyes were drawn;To the empty lot beyond the trees;That was where my childhood home stood;It was demolished long ago;But for a moment, I could see it;A white clapboard house;Where five children played;Where a giant weeping willow;Grew in the back yard;And a small creek was flowing;On the other side of the driveway;I can see our neighbor;Riding his horse on the road;Up the hill just beyond our house;I could see my best friend;As she walked her bicycle;Asking me to come over;And she is flashing that radiant smile;That time or death can't erase;The ghosts of the past;Returned to the past;Nearly forty years had gone by in a flash;And I realized that I was now a stranger;Everyone that I knew here were gone;I said to my friend as we headed out of town;"There is nothing left for me here."And to that place, I shall never return;Except in my memory for inspiration