Hidden amongst tall walls of aging oaks and wandering freshwater creeks stands a gate, rusted and old but never drooping. It guards a sloping field of purple, where ever-growing milkweed and aster attract swarms of flying creatures with a perfume so rich and floral one could taste it in the late September air. Old yet proud, the gate cuts off this secluded paradise from surrounding fields of late harvest corn swaying in the chilled breeze and the large bushes of honeysuckle, sweet to the taste in the early fall but bitterly unripe in the summer months. Butterflies flit circles around the vibrant flowers, rarely stopping before continuing their journey. They head to another field, another plant, another forest, but they will return; they always do. To walk among such nature feels like an interruption, footprints disrupting the pristine grass and scattering crickets and beetles alike with every itchy brush of the waist-high grass against jean-covered calves. Carved out of the edges of the field is a path lined with rough terrain from multitudes of tractors running over ground so wet and soft it stays pliant beneath one’s feet. The field stands peaceful yet empty, not like an empty room devoid of life and feeling, but more like a stuffed children’s toy forgotten on the floor, awaiting its owner's return. 

Once, this place had held a small barn made of greying wood and a patched tin roof among its gentle slopes. The barn had collapsed long ago, the splintered wood carted off to be burned in a pine-scented blaze and the holey roof taken to be used for sheet metal. Only the crumbling foundation remained of the decrepit structure; a raised concrete platform in the middle of the meadow shows the only bit of human life within the holds of the sagging barbed-wire fence and rusty red gate. The now cracked and crumbling platform had been home to a large part of my childhood and holds more than a few memories: pine-scented picnics surrounded by swirling golden leaves in the caress of a late autumn breeze and high-pitched cheers heard over the defending silence of drifting snow as sleds shredded the pristine banks and ice-crusted small faces, but that was long ago. Before responsibility and expectations drowned out the pure joy of life and before everyone was too busy to revel in the company of another, this meadow had witnessed the growth of many children; now there are only singing birds and chirping crickets to accompany the peaceful stretch of land. 

Today the bugs lie low in the soft dirt as the air grows heavy with the taste of static and the earthy smell of oncoming rain. Dark green leaves turn over in the wind as even the trees prepare for the downpour. The breeze picks up speed, bending the wildflowers beneath its forces, running downwards along the slight slope of the hill, leaving my mouth coated in tart pollen. Bit by bit the rain begins to fall upon the meadow, carving paths of its own along the soft dirt, drowning out the smell of the flowers, and leaving in its wake a slight whiff of ozone. Once rustling underbrush stills as fresh spring rain coats the newly grown vegetation. Small beads of cool water drip down my face and drag me back to reality, making me realize, with no certain urgency, that I have abandoned my task at hand in favor of memories. Memories, however, are much more interesting than any meaningless task, for only memories can shadow this field in a veil of peaceful slumber, lonely yet treasured all the same.