Ever since the first summer I can possibly remember, my dad would take my sister and I out to our cabin up in the Blue Mountains. The drive always seemed so long. I can still remember seeing a particular fir tree at a fork in the gravel road that led out to our cabin. This tree was a sign of being close to the cabin! It was about 15ft tall, transpiring an icy-blue contrast which distinguished it from the surrounding forestry. The center glistened with a dim and tranquil emerald tint and its florescent orange colored candles flared from its limbs like flames. The lengthy arms continually wave in my memory, as if welcoming me back. Seeming so supple and temperate, but grazing my fingers against it revealed its sharp roughness -almost aggressive. It gave off an easygoing pine aroma, which seeped from its fissured torso . The dust from the gravel road always seemed to beat us to this fir tree, surrounding it with a semi-opaque golden colored fog. The air was fresh and scented with life. The smell was very pleasant which still brings back memories when I catch its trace. The skies looked majestic sapphire with soft clouds straggling about. Everything is so quiet; or is it? As soon as the truck's engine paused, sounds begun marvelously surfacing. The sounds seemed as if they could be heard only after I had taken a moment to slow my thoughts to the pace of the natural world around me. The sounds were of summer bugs, an occasional cry of a hawk, a whistling breeze, and the sound of the grass combing against itself. I broke a blade of the golden grass and endorsed it with my mouth, assuring myself that it was existent. It's flavor was dusty and untouched. I am here . I am home.
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