The memories of that part of my life lie on the ground from long ago.  Pieces of the puzzle scattered in the sand and in the trees.  I walk around wondering about the empty places in between and what will fill them in times to come.

The well-worn path leads around the home we once had, and the sounds of machines and horns and laughter can still be heard in the wind.  Long ago gone, the white-washed walls stand, a testament of time.  The path continues, stopping after the memories wait, as I take in the pictures of my past.

The remnants of the countless repairs and a darkened doorway, oily and always open, guarded by the steel and tools and machinery, and the sweat, the consternation, and blood, and hope of a working man.  I am drawn towards it (as I always am), stopping over forgotten answers to forgotten questions.  I smile because the smiles never leave.  They linger.

There is too much here, the ghosts too numerous and so onward past to the open maw of the highway that all harvests lead to. The sand blends with the cement, slowly to dust, peaceful with the seclusion and bleating silence, it stares as it has for countless seconds to the rotten remains across the way.

Every crevice has a voice that cries out for my attention and I turn towards the hall of machines, broken and dilapidated, the wood for repairs that will never blossom, leaning against the back waiting still for a day that will never come.  The beams and gables, the supports and trusses broken and bent, giving way to the nature of life, the endless entropy.

There is the tractor before my time, moving in feet not in miles for many years sitting, covered with work, and now dust, and now time, and now stuff, buried deep, the oil in the engine black and the grey paint that was once washed has now been the roof of rain-tattered wood.  The implements, once pulled, now planted.  From iron to rust, to dirt, to dust.  The wind howls and the young memories call, catching my attention for one last time.

What is waste is wonderful.  What is trash is treasure.  The beams creak and I cry a little.  Around the corner, mushrooms.  Down the path the garden of cars, now empty and the stand of trees sway freely, unencumbered by even older memories.  Taken by the hand I am led still farther to the profit that never proliferated.  The promise of the reward that became an empty chest.  It doesn’t matter now, the room of regrets.  It had no meaning then and it has none now.  Just pain and promise and the cost of purpose posed as the beginning which was the end.  There is sadness within those walls and always has been.

The shit-stained yard though, is a paradise of life, the heart of any garden is the brown, not green and the floor of this palace has never seen the light of day.  I remember the waist deep wanderings when the chains broke, and the profanity of necessity, the dismissal of dire cleanliness and the taste of bitter pride as it was swallowed up.  And somehow a smile lifted from those lips as we wiped shit from our faces.  It worked somehow and we never wondered why.

In July of 1990 a turning point, the time I saw the face of a friend high up in the clouds, hammer in hand.  And my own face flush with naivety with the love of my life on my arm and music in my mind.  There are lessons learned there, too many to count.  Out of place it stands as a testament of hard work, not paid off, and the never-ending hope that defined so much, and still does in a way.

Another hallway beckons and the sweet smell of rotting grass and warm noses, of the fog of heat and the whirring pumps.  The place is only alive with animals, but time has long since forgotten the days of Danish Reds and hay and straw.  But I cannot forget because this became my life and is who I am.  The years cannot erase my love of the place and the memories that it holds.  They will never be replaced as long as my eyes can gaze upon this wonderland of spirits.

I know there is death and I know that the memories are meaningless to many, but there will always be new that replaces old, easy life that replaces essential toil once called craft, once called knowledge, once important to life itself.  These ghosts, these memories know as they have seen the passage of time but welcome me back with open arms and heaving breasts.  The blood of the place gone, it still lives as long as there is someone to remember the memories and regrets of a life once lived.