Freshman Girls

Freshman girls, grand pals they were

That walked among the beauty here.

The stories shared of boy on bus,

A broken car in drifts of snow.

Batons and cheers, and soldiers back.

The years have passed, the girls are old,

But still, the path is lined with trees

And roses bloom along the wall.

The girls, they sit with silver hair,

Our small talk words get in the way

of rare and treasured moments now.

A quiet hug, goodbyes they say.

Freshman girls, grand pals they were

They walked among the beauty here

But still, the path is lined with trees

And roses bloom along the wall.

Dedicated to my Mom who took a trip with me back to where she was raised,

walked with me around her old neighborhood,

peeked with me into window of the church where

as a little 5th grader,

she gave her heart to Jesus,

walked down her violin teachers street,

round the campus of her beloved school,

past the drug store where she and Grandma had been many times,

and the drive through she worked — been torn down since,

the pool where her Dad had lifeguarded,

introduced me to old friends,

one town friend,

one country friend,

both wonderful women,

I now understand why Mom has held-on to these friends over 65 years,

and sometimes wonders why she ever left Nebraska.