four

i grew up in the house next door. i actually moved there when i was four, but really, thats when i think my memory started. the smell of peppermint that grew wild in front of the barn, the grapevine that was in the backyard. in the summer we were always outside. when hot it was time to run to the shade of the house. a sharp line of chill in the back. the ping of dad in the barn hitting the anvil and the smell of coal burning in his forge. going out in the evening to play on the trail after our baths. it felt clean and the sky was a perfect mix of pink and black. frantic because i couldnt tell time yet. i could do cartwheels. miles of them. i dreamed of the color of peaches and glued clover flowers on foam plates to give as gifts.

my own daughter is four and i think about her memory starting now, a half mile through the field from the house i had all those memories. in the spring i plan to build her a lovely playhouse, based off a picture of one in s.c. that has the presence of my house. she is afterall, a wonderful housekeeper. she was raised her first two and a half years in a virginia town that was always blooming. the only thing she remembers about the village is the hydrangeas and tea roses that were so fragrant in front of our summer kitchen. she remembers the drum and fife corp parades and me cooking over a fire. i have made it so the smell of woodsmoke is in her blood.