While driving down the white gravel road on the way to the farm

I look left out the window towards the creek where we used to play.

It's different.

​

When we were smaller

left to roam around on hot summer days

we'd walk the path to that creek bed the rain had long forgotten

and explore what remained

​

To the right of the bridge we walked down the slope into that river

filled with old gravel and broken twigs, and shaded by overarching trees.

We'd run through the expanse of that old creek,

swing off branches, and yearn to make a new discovery.

We always did.

​

Every so often, there'd be scraped knees or cuts on arms, 

but we were always okay.

We'd run back to our parents who patched us up and ushered us back outside to play.

​

Now there is no turning right at the bridge. 

A fence stands there, 10 feet tall, laced with barbed-wire.

The barrier goes on as far as the road, preventing even the most rebellious from finding a way in.

​

As I continue driving, I think back to the creek. 

Beautiful, curious, exciting. 

We were the explorers of an unnavigated terrain full of warm, and connection. 

The inevitable accidents and arguments,

the sadness we had to overcome,

and at the end of the adventure,

exceptional growth.

​

Now there is a fence.

And no going back.