Home will not let you forget.
 The smell of freshly picked apples in the afternoon,
 My mother soaking them by the kitchen sink,
 Rubbing off the mildew under running water.
 I watched her dry her hands on her bright yellow apron.
 She led me to the table as I wiped the sleep from my eyes.
 Where is that apron now?
 I remember the gentle hum of my father’s voice;
 My head on his chest, surrounded by an infinite army
 Of fluffy teddy bears,
 As he read Around the World in Eighty Days
 Or The Twelve Dancing Princesses.
 And how his smile loomed in the dim orange light
 Of my childhood bedroom.
 To this day, I am reminded of home
 Whenever Neil Young comes on the radio.
 I think of my mother, singing along in the car.
 And her laughter when I told her
 She would be a great singer.
 It all seemed so possible then.
 But those days that seemed never-ending
 Came to an end. 
 That innocent child,
 I wish could have stayed a while.
 Oh, how I’d like to meet the girl
 That lived in the clouds
 (Hidden from the world).

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