Twin trees

There used to be a pair of trees

in the front yard of my childhood home.

A gap separated them like teeth in my mouth;

it was the perfect hide-and-seek passageway.

The roots began to grow into the driveway,

creating a bump we would travel over.

It meant departure;

it meant welcome home.

I reminisce that hurdle when I visit,

because, like me, those trees are gone.

Plucked like intrusive weeds rooting too deep.

The bump has been smoothed with pavement,

glossed over and buried.

I miss those trees.

They were home.