Ghosts of the Past

Taking a car ride upstate;
With a very good friend;
We drove through the town;
Where as a child, I grew;
My family left there;
Back in the summer of 1969;
But my heart stayed there;
Frozen forever in time;
We stopped for awhile;
The post office was still on the corner;
And I saw the huge bell;
In front of the little white church;
Where we went every Sunday;
In the back of my mind;
I could still hear the booming voice;
Of the God-fearing reverend;
Literally scaring the hell;
Out of the mesmerized congregation;
My feet crunched under fallen leaves;
The paintbrush of autumn;
Was gloriously present;
As I made my way;
To the old schoolhouse;
And I stood there for a moment;
I felt the chill of winter air;
And heard the din created;
By two hundred kids standing in line;
I put my arms around one of the pillars;
And my eyes were drawn;
To the empty lot beyond the trees;
That was where my childhood home stood;
It was demolished long ago;
But for a moment, I could see it;
A white clapboard house;
Where five children played;
Where a giant weeping willow;
Grew in the back yard;
And a small creek was flowing;
On the other side of the driveway;
I can see our neighbor;
Riding his horse on the road;
Up the hill just beyond our house;
I could see my best friend;
As she walked her bicycle;
Asking me to come over;
And she is flashing that radiant smile;
That time or death can't erase;
The ghosts of the past;
Returned to the past;
Nearly forty years had gone by in a flash;
And I realized that I was now a stranger;
Everyone that I knew here were gone;
I said to my friend as we headed out of town;
"There is nothing left for me here."
And to that place, I shall never return;
Except in my memory for inspiration