Once a month I travel to a forgotten land,

A land untouched by the corruption of industry,

A land unaffected by time.

Although the land, flat and bleak, 

It is rich in cotton and tobacco,

The air smells of the close scent of the river.

The river, old as time itself,

Reflects the perpetuity of the land,

And it’s aging inhabitants.

The women gather like wrens at the church,

Playing bingo in pursuit of ceramic angels,

While the men congregate at the tackle shop,

Exchanging tales from their distant youths with bittersweet reminiscence.

Walking through the sparse downtown,

It is clear that the buildings haven’t been altered since Roosevelt,

The peeling paint reveals the brick-etched storefronts of the past.

The cracked pavement,

Giving my feet a break from the dry loam,

Hugs the sides of decades-old thrift stores and laundromats. 

The women pinch my cheeks,

Remarking how much I resemble friends now lost,

Ones who I had never known.

Sleeping in my mother’s childhood home,

The muffled chugging of the passing train is heard,

Under the night sky – unpolluted and ancient.

The cemetery, only yards away from Granny’s old pottery shop,

Is the home to all who knew this forgotten land,

Of whom are now forgotten by history itself.

In a land so forgotten,

Time is still.

In a land so forgotten,

It itself is a challenge to our world.

In a land so forgotten,

I find peace.