My nephew sent me drone footage of the square miles showing the area I grew up in. The two rivers I swam in and the island of my ancestors where we played war were captured magnificently. The bridge that we kids threw everything off of that we could get our hands on still provided a throughway. There was the knoll we went sliding on. Peeking out was the inlet that froze first as winter approached. I saw the footprint where our house once stood and all the neighbors’ homes. The pasture where old Joe kept cows and horses still looked like animals could graze there. And lastly, the school containing thirteen years of my youth lay below. I can’t help but hear the words of “Country Road” in the background of my memories.
Houses get old and disappear along with our mortal bodies, but the land remains the same. Only memories can be extrapolated from what I saw, good memories of things long gone.
The memory of the righteous is a blessing, but the name of the wicked will rot.
Remember the former things of old; for I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like Me,
Memories can be good. Give it some thought.
Gary