Grandpa’s Farm

Grandpas Farm is a great place to be free. The warmth of the sun coming through the drapes and the smell of firewood burning filled the space. My grams stands in the kitchen preparing pumpkin pie and holiday food. Crazy Uncle sits fifteen feet high, cigar in mouth but not even lit, waiting waiting for the deer feeder to go off. The blind is dark brownish green with camo-netting hanging from the top all the way to the ground. We hide so the deer won’t see us smoke trees. We walk around creating paths with our machetes. My dad sits on the patio Camel tobacco is his cologne, blue jeans and boots propped up on the coffee table. He’s thinking. There’s darkness all around. The picture is painted so faint yet so bright in the depth that it talks to the voices in his head. He cannot see the light, he has seemingly lost the Power that is him and views the world as a black hole. Hope. We do have hope, just as we wear different masks. The seemingly great fix, it never lasts.  Something said,”Infinite Power is the cure.”