New Hampshire: the playground of my youth

This place, day or night has been my home in ways that no other places has been. In a life of transience, chosen and obligatory, this place has been the constant in my life. This place has been my family for longer (forever) and in more ways than any other... and now with adult eyes I see the playground of my youth. I see the blueberry bushes thick with unripe fruit; I see the grass that grows where my grandfather's garden used to thrive; I see the chipping paint on the deck where my annual photograph was taken for my first two decades; I see the spaces he left empty and the space that he used to fill so well. I smell the calm on the warm breeze in the afternoon. I feel the evening rain on my skin and know that when I leave the house will miss me. I watch three generations of wild turkeys feed on the freshly cut hay in the back field that no longer serves a purpose. And optimistically I test the raspberry bushes knowing full well that it's berries wont be properly ripe until days after I leave this place, but I keep testing anyway. Something about the sun-warmed tart burst and the numerous seeds encapsulated in every single berry keeps me reaching for more. I have always preferred the ALMOST ripe ones to the overly ripe excessively sweet ones. And so my last moments at this forever castle of my dreams are marked with reminiscence.(The dreams of my childhood and the dreams for my future were crafted here...) The dreams have changed, the girl has changed... the woman was born and the dreams changed again, but the castle remains... a farm and a playground of my childhood for all time. Clouds cover the sky. The wind blows them South. The rain falls. The land sighs and the Sun comes again. It is this pattern that will repeat itself in the playground of my youth.