Imprinted

Lately, because of Mom’s situation, I’ve been spending a lot of time in the places I grew up. Sixty-plus-year-old memories flooding back, few more intense than sitting outside on a pleasant Spring evening and listening to the cacophony of peepers across the street, tiny frogs who still call that little patch of wetland home.

The sound still stops me, still transports me back to when I was only single digits old.

It’s always a trip down memory lane when we come back this way. Seems a bit more intense this time around.