Week 3: Post- Post

The Upper Lot

Standing beneath the tall oaks, dripping with lacy spanish moss, I hear the call of the water fowl. The ducks on the lake, Lake Holloway, just beyond the wall of trees and silver palms, call to one another. I hear, if I listen that is, to the flutter of their wings, the splash of the water as they glide to a stop atop the glassy lake surface, the whisper of the wind as it rustles the branches and leaves of the trees and shrubs providing this hollow of shade and peace.

The trees, this place, they take me back, to a time I can only dream of. I wish I knew first hand, but they do. They were here when life was less complicated. They saw the moments that I read about in history books and novels. The "glory days" of this place that I love. They saw, they witnessed, they were a part. Suppose another young girl, seeking comfort on a day in early December 1941, when the world ceased to make sense. She feared for her father, brother, beau, whoever it was in her life. Suppose these very trees engulfed her with silent solace, sympathy and above all else reassurance. They have been in this sport for years, and humanity willing, will be there for years to come. Like both that girl, and me, they have years ahead of them, and many more things to see.