Shani circa 2004

I know it isn’t a big building, but it’s never been small. As a child, I remember not being able to see the desserts sitting atop the counter. I remember trying to sneak a peek while my family was at the beach. I remember the mornings, wrapped up in a big cozy cotton blanket, staring down at the calm water. Looking out the screen, watching the ducks enjoying time on the dock before anyone woke up to shoo them away. The only kind of cereal was the healthy kind, but here at my camp, that was O.K. I didn’t mind the lack of berry crunch, or sugary swirl, the oats were good enough for me, but only when I was there. Only when the wind smells like pine or when the roads were quiet.
I remember the morning sand in between my toes, sending shivers up my spine. The water is cold and still. I poke my toe in and watch the ripples hit the shore. I remember the walkway from the camp to the beach seemed twice as long on the way back up, even though it wasn’t even very long to begin with. I remember being scared of that place where I saw the snake even years after it had slithered away.
The blueberries in Freedom, New Hampshire, are sweeter than the blueberries in heaven. I remember having to bring my gram’s watch so I could be back before too late because too many times I ate blueberries until after dark.
As I grew up, I gained more and more privileges. Like going to the raft without a life jacket, or using the canoe with my cousins. I remember late nights on the water’s edge watching the stars with my family. I’d look up, and pick my favorite and just stare at that one until my eye lids became too heavy. Then I would turn and go back up to the place I loved so much.
The familiar creak of the screen door is a sound I only recently learned to love. The pictures on the wall, the trophies on the mantle, the ash in the woodstove, are all things that make this little cottage my home. The spiders here remain alive, and the moths are welcome. This is my camp, and it is their camp. The door to the bathroom is more than just a door, it is a record keeper from way back in the 40s.On the door is every person’s height, multiple times, from various years. There is Champ’s from 1959, or Joe’s from 86. I see my marks from over my lifetime, and I can’t even remember half of them being recorded. I do remember the one in pink ink though. I wasn’t supposed to use pink, no one before ever had so I might as well. I did, then I remember not being able to hide the fact that it was me.