Traveling to the trove of my soul,
Mount Clinton Pike’s grey back roads
kick up dust as my family drives over them.
The dust swirls in the air, like it has just risen out of slumber
until softly drifting back down to sleep.
Rolling over numerous green hills
creates a ticklish feeling in our stomachs, 
like the moment 
a roller coaster.
Raising our hands above our heads,
pretending it’s Busch Garden’s Griffin for that brief second. 
Passing a long and winding lane of a shared driveway,
turkey houses line one side.
The inmates gobble and scream every time we come home.
Dad gives his best turkey impression,
leaving my mom, brother, and me in giggle fits.
Seeing my trove, a white paneled house
with dark green shutters, open and inviting, 
like someone awaiting your return.
Footsteps and puppy paws
thump against the floor.
Content children chortle
as my brother, dog, and I
play a game with the objective of 
catching and tackling my dad.
Wandering down to the garden,
jagged, recently cut grass
stabs at my feet
as I cross the expanse of lawn from the concrete driveway.
Smelling the fresh mint that grows in “my section.”
Its sharp freshness creates a calm feeling inside,
a balm making my day better.
Waiting for summertime
to pick the thin, veiny leaves off to make a sweet cold tea
that makes the humid, hot, mosquito ridden 
month of July something to look forward to. 
I left the trove of my soul forever.
I watched as Mount Clinton Pike’s grey back roads
kicked up dust as my family drove over them.
The dust swirled in the air, like it had just risen out of slumber,
but it refused to drift back down to sleep.
It wafted in the air,
looked for a new place to rest,
like I had to. 
Rolled over the green hills,
the ticklish feeling had fled.
Looked back and saw my trove, a white paneled house
with its dark green shutters, closed and latched,
like a friend who would
keep and hold all the memories there


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