The smells are the same. There’s dust and dirt. There are farmers in the fields. But the fields are different. Trees been cut down. Old farmhouses and yards decimated. To make room for bigger fields. Tractors don’t just work acres now, they work hundreds and thousands of acres. I’m back where I grew up. Showing my kids the backroads and the fields. The place where their Aunty Gena and I, as teenagers, accidentally drove into a ditch and got stuck. The place where the freshly cut down Christmas tree blew out of the back of the truck on the way home. The place where I fell off the roof of a grainery. The roads I used to haul grain or haul bales. It’s a weird nostalgia. More things have changed than stayed the same.
bloom.planted.north 
Leave a comment