Mournfully and sweetly, so very low and gentle, the cooing of the mourning dove echoes through the early evening light. I watch the light sink low, I hear the faint notes of a wind chime as a silent breeze floats past and then slowly fades away. If I listen to those sweet, low notes I feel the tension fade away, as I listen to the soft noises and forget all the days. And then those old sweet memories, of days gone by so long ago, of a little girl with frizzy curls, soft brown eyes, and cooing doves. I remember that little frame sitting in the evening light, swinging on the swings, as high as she could go, to see the birds keep flying, to see the sun sink low. I remember the cool grass between her toes, and the smell of freshly-turned earth inside her nose. In those days there were daisies, and little golden flowers, there were cool breezes and crickets too. Oh the memories, those sweet days in which her young mind knew no pain. All was sunshine-filled days, every moment happiness to the child-mind. And now I keep reaching back, back into that almost unknown, I reach my fingers out to grasp, but like the sunshine, it slips through my fingers, too intangible to grasp.
