Gosh, it’s been years since those old rules were made,
The paint has all peeled and the memory delayed.
No use in looking at how we were raised—
Safe to say we’ve all shifted, and perhaps left them amazed.

So what do I do differently now than back then?
Probably everything. Where would I begin?

When I look back now, I see a place almost buried in green. An old wooden house tucked so deeply among the trees that only pieces of it remain visible.

Funny how time does that.

What needed to stay green, stayed green.

What had finished its season fell away.

And still, beneath all that growing and shedding, the roots knew exactly where they belonged.

The old iron gate remains slightly open. Not quite an invitation to return, but enough that I can slip through every now and then and remember.

There are things worth carrying forward.

You don’t have to tear down the old house simply because you chose to build another. You preserve what was good.

And you never forget where the roots began.

I suppose that’s why I’ve never bothered to latch the gate.

You should never forget the way home.

You just don’t have to live there.