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  • You Are My Happiness: Where The Sycamore Grew

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    Jean Cristine Flores Ancog
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    The document is a reflection on returning to a childhood home after many years. It describes feeling both distant from and familiar with the small yellow house where the author spent their early years. Memories of growing up there with their parents and children rush back, from Christmas trees to anniversaries, as well as the grief of losing their mother. Though the area has changed with new homes and disappearing orchards, the house remains largely the same, bringing comfort and happiness to the author in revisiting their past.

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    The document is a reflection on returning to a childhood home after many years. It describes feeling both distant from and familiar with the small yellow house where the author spent their early years. Memories of growing up there with their parents and children rush back, from Christmas trees to anniversaries, as well as the grief of losing their mother. Though the area has changed with new homes and disappearing orchards, the house remains largely the same, bringing comfort and happiness to the author in revisiting their past.

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    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
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    23 views1 page

    You Are My Happiness: Where The Sycamore Grew

    Uploaded by

    Jean Cristine Flores Ancog
    The document is a reflection on returning to a childhood home after many years. It describes feeling both distant from and familiar with the small yellow house where the author spent their early years. Memories of growing up there with their parents and children rush back, from Christmas trees to anniversaries, as well as the grief of losing their mother. Though the area has changed with new homes and disappearing orchards, the house remains largely the same, bringing comfort and happiness to the author in revisiting their past.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
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    of 1

    You are my happiness in front of this house that lies at the bend

    at the end of the road, where the sycamore grew...


    Happiness is in seeing a smile on your face.
    As sudden as wind, thirty years fades away, lost in

    the moment of this crisp autumn da


    No one can replace what is true.
    And quickly alive, memories rise, becoming again

    Sunshine radiates within, the springtime of lives.....

    I am so enamored by you. ...our first Christmas trees,..and first anniversaries...

    To feel your beauty in all of its forms. ...a place where I cried long into the night, the child

    To not have to shelter my heart from harm. in me grieving when mother had died.. ..then long,

    My love for you, it is one of a kind. starry nights, lost in the moonlight

    Happiness is in feeling your arms wrap around mine. counting my blessings, and holding my babies

    Each time, time stands still.

    Pure happiness washes away any pain. Yes....it is all captured there, in the small yellow

    The feeling rushes through my veins. house

    For a moment in time,

    I feel once again. It's funny, I know, but I'm glad they have kept the

    Happy in knowing you will never walk away. yellow...

    When life gets hard I know you will stay. And it still wears the trace of sun, and crisp-white

    Faith and love permit, where sadness once thrived. shutters...

    All because you are a constant in my life.


    The little yellow house, with a flagstone pathway
    Where The Sycamore GrewThe sun-yellow house
    that we laid
    seems smaller, somehow that sits beyond the bend, where the old sycamore
    grew...

    seeing it now, with much older eyes...

    The street seems narrower, the trees are taller..

    Where once open fields spanned both sides of the

    road

    they are building new homes, and fences have

    bloomed

    The neighboring orchards have all but disappeared

    But somehow we knew the house would still be

    there....

    Strangely distant, ...yet, still much is the same

    There's an unfamiliar red tricycle, and a skateboard

    that leans

    along the smooth flagstone stones that wind to the

    door

    A path that we laid on a hot summer day...

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