Gone
My gaze takes in all that has changed.
No longer Barstool Mountain, a newly constructed home in place of my aunt and uncle’s modest white country home.
Gone is the propane tank that stood west of the house and served as home base for a million games of tag.
Gone like my aunt and uncle.
Gone is the barn, the cellar, the oak and treehouse just beyond the back porch.
Gone is the old dirt road full of boulders and ruts, now smoothly grated with fresh chat.
Gone are the train tracks just down the way, replaced by a hiking and biking trail.
Gone are the peels of laughter of cousins playing red rover by the barb wire fence.
Silence emanates, only the whistling wind greeting me.
Gone is my uncle Ron asking me to sit and tell him a story.
It is all gone but still here, in me.
I am here and all of Barstool Mountain still beats within me.