I remember walking under old ironwood pines, planted in straight lines and running parallel to the even older stone walls; mossy and tumbled but still beautiful even in their disarray. The pines hummed and whispered with the lightest breeze, and we would braid their long supple needles into whips, slashing the air as we walked.
There were peacocks living up in those hills, in secluded groves where you would happen upon a gorgeous banyan tree, long smooth limbs reaching out, waist high, for twenty or thirty feet- a perfect seat to rest on.
There was an old home foundation, with coconut palms planted around it, looking a little out of place in the middle of the rolling, grass-covered green hills. You could see for miles, down through every shade of green, down to the brown desert grass, down to the blue ocean with whitecaps and the occasional whale frolicking amidst them.
Let's buy this place, we said. Let's live here always and never leave. And in a way, it happened- memories like unending green hills, deep blue oceans of memories, will always be there, and can't be taken away.
