We Sat on the Hill

Time and time again I sat on the hill. Seasons changed. I changed. Still I sat on the hill. In the winter, I sat on the grey sled waiting to go down the hill. In the summer, I sat on the grass watching the clouds and white streaks trailing a dot in the sky. When Brenda came over, we sat on the hill. When my children were small, we sat on the hill. The house back the lane sat on the hill.

The crops changed in the field below the hill. Dad uncovered a nest of bunnies in that field. Often he found an arrowhead waiting for him in the field. The red winged black bird built her nest in that field, and I watched Dad work in the field. The hill was where Mom hung the wash and the chicken for Sunday dinner. The clothesline was where the clothes flapped in the wind bringing the scent of soap with it. We sat on the hill time and time again.

There wasn't a neighbor kid who hadn't rolled down that hill. The momentum of a child running in tag often took them down the hill and into the field. I rolled down the hill with my small granddaughter the last time I was there. I was too old to roll down that hill, but my granddaughter laughed, and I had one last memory.

I still sit on that hill overlooking the creek bottom. I feel the breeze and think of my mother. I watch for the ground hog who irritates my dad. I sit outside the big white house back the lane and am thankful for what I had then that embraces me now.

There was a time we sat on the hill.