Places long unseen often loom larger in memory than they really are. That haystack on the old farm . . . that green lane . . . that high fence in the back yard and the tree we climbed to look over it – surely they were an important part of the universe. And the old house had yawning caves in the closets, and untold mysteries in that deep cellar and up in that beckoning yet forbidding attic. Why, that house couldn’t have been as small as now it seems.
I remember these things, and they were real, and and they are real now where I keep them in remembrance.
But we can’t go back.
Thus Richard L. Evans.
I have hopes that in another world you can go back again. If so, the future is the surest and only route to the past.