I am hurting. I am sorry this may not make much sense. I was little when my parents bought a piece of land built a house made a home step by step added layer after layer until theirs was a family of six. I was 6 when my Father passed away. I remember only the things a six year old remembers. I remember bear hugs and all encompassing warmth from love and fury the ways Dads did. I remember watching them through the rain lower him in his box into the ground. but there was the land. It was a five star kitchen and we served the best mud-pies with sides of cattails. Then there was my step dad. It was Hell in many ways as his children were the demons who would forever torment him he could not love them enough he would never love us too little and there we were trapped in that. But there was the land. We explored it and it fed our tummies, our hearts and our minds some twenty years plus there was divorce but there was the land it would stay with us and so we lived our lives and took for granted that land would always be there. We walked it. We looked out over it. We loved it. But we did not tend it. Thirty years to the day we lost Father number two. Disbelief. Pain. So raw. But there was the land. It was stable. It was constant. It was there. As it was before. Then it wasn’t. I say goodbye not just to the land, but to him and him. To a Childhood of sketches and poetry and bumps, bruises, and broken hearts. To tears of sadness and of happy. To smiles and laughter. To cookie flour strewn about the laminate floor and metal stairs that beckoned for injuries. To the smell of peat moss and the sound of pure country as the stars blink at the cricket’s call. I mourn the loss of the stage that always played my most favorite parts of the life that was mine. There are those that hurt a same hurt and I shall hold on to them.