There's a photograph of you standing beneath the ancient oak tree in our backyard. It speaks of summer afternoons spent reading books and listening to the wind whisper secrets. (1995, maybe?)
Your laughter fills the picture, echoing in a time vastly different from now.
I remember countless dinners at the long wooden table outside the kitchen doors, illuminated by fairy lights. Plates of pasta lingering on the edges of your dreams. (Does anyone recall where we got it from?)
The scents of rosemary and memories waft deep into the evening sky, merging with fragments of songs we made up but never wrote down.
Long walks through dusty paths with the setting sun as your only companion. The whispers of fields undisturbed by time and the scent of juniper berries in the air. (Always Autumn)
A place almost mythical, slipping through hands like sand, leaving only trail markers of nostalgia.
Once, under the shade of a road sign, we found an old penny, so corroded it told stories older than us.