Hearing a sniffling, I turned around. My three little sisters had started crying.
Mama said something to Papa. I heard the jingle of the trace chains as they tightened in the singletrees.
Our wagon moved on. I have never been back to the Ozarks.
All I have left are my dreams and memories, but if God is willing, some day I’d like to go back—back to those beautiful hills.
I’d like to walk again on trails I walked in my boyhood days.
Once again I’d like to face a mountain breeze and smell the wonderful scent of the redbuds, and papaws, and the dogwoods.
With my hands I’d like to caress the cool white bark of a sycamore.
I’d like to take a walk far back in the flinty hills and search for a souvenir,
an old double-bitted ax stuck deep in the side of a white oak tree.
I know the handle has long since rotted away with time.
Perhaps the rusty frame of a coal-oil lantern still hangs there on the blade.
I’d like to see the old home place, the barn and the rail fences.
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