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.
There was a time we sat on the hill.
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