window frame

I play with an endearing little memory and embellish it as I please. I change the seasons around the window frame, each vision a soft snapshot in my mind . I remember the house and driving down a hill in the woods. It was after a play or a concert at the University. We paused at the stop sign before turning left. This much I know is true. It was dark, the house was wrapped around a huge picture window that framed a baby grand piano. The criss-cross window glowed with a warm perfection. Only a moment housing warmth and contentment. Few details hold fast, just an awareness. I can't find the house. I have looked over the years, but the road along the bay has been widened, changed. The mood complete with the refrain in my head of a very old song, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young's, "Our House". The memory works best wearing a blanket of fresh snow or soft autumn rain. Sometimes I wonder why this memory lingers. Most times I just enjoy it.