A Short Tale

I grew up in a far away place. It is very small and doesn't always appear on the maps--I find it from the map of my soul. There were people like shadows, moving quietly with some purpose not to be disclosed to the casual viewer. Not that there were any of those around.
And there were vines: kudzu in the forests and ivy over the buildings. Vines seemed to hold the whole thing together, seemed to keep out new things and hold in the dying. The vines sheltered the bugs and the birds. Spiderwebs held the morning dew like liquid beads on sticky string, mirroring the rising sun. And morning glories, all lilac and fragile opened up veins in the gullies and ruts between people and places.
It was my secret world, and I loved it there. Whether exploring on foot, bicycle, or just in my mind, I could always find something fascinating to stare at or someplace to hide. It was an endless maze of forts and fields, hutches and hollows. You could pretend to be anyone at any time; imagination was unknowingly treasured.
Perhaps there are other places like it out there still, but not in that spot. The old ones have gone on, the buildings changed, the trees cut away. The wind blows through there in ways it couldn't when I was young. There are new people with new needs. The only way to know the place as it was is to stop by the newly erected roadside pavilions to read the captions under the historic photographs.
Or to be old enough to remember.