Among the pines

After we move on, no matter the reason, a small piece of us seems to stay behind. It holds deeply-seated memories of what was, but never truly forgets.  
 
Surely the lichen still grows on the northern side of the trees, every detail of them etched inside my mind in perfect detail. I was always fascinated by how much they looked like some sort of green facial hair growing along the rough grooves of bark; bearded pines.  
 
Perhaps my footprints have long since disappeared from where I wandered off those narrow deertrails to pick wild Lupine, their small purple blooms a hearty spot of color among the tall grass and brush.  
 
The lush patch of ferns that only grew where the ground was moist all year round should be dormant now; covered by a heavy blanket of winter. It was the only place on the property they could survive the dry season, a place that all the old timers swore had a river flowing through it, way back when.  
Maybe there's still a hole in the earth where the dog and I had once dug to see how moist the soil was a couple of summers ago.  
 
The warped frame of an old truck bed with metal racks that the kids and I turned into a fort must still be there too. Like a mangled, steel skeleton it stood in the center of a thick stand of Fir trees, the only way to move it would be to cut down half the forest.  
 
All the wood had rotted and fallen away, the earth reclaiming everything but the hand made nails that were used to secure the planks to the frame. We had covered it in loose branches, making it invisibe to those who passed by. The weight of a thick layer of snow has most likely caved in our makeshift roof by now.  
 
And like that old truck bed frame, my memories are just a husk of something passed, something left behind. Once tangible things are left to wander through my thoughts like the bittersweet scent of pine and wildflowers...  
 
And I miss them.