Years ago, in the beautiful sunshine of a perfect afternoon in July, I would ride my bike down the dusty streets of a tiny town in Rhode Island. I would breathe in the sea air, feel the warm breeze rolling in off the ocean and filling my lungs. Floating in the air amongst the many aromas of an average beach town would be the constant smell of flowers – every yard and driveway was lined with bushes or flowerbeds of some sort, and many residents kept gardens, and so the scent would cumulate throughout the town and hang in the air like a morning mist.
I would ride through the back streets of the town, winding along the edges of the wildflower-covered cliffs overlooking the beach, past the tennis courts and the tiny old marina that we fondly referred to as “the Yacht Club,” through the shady glade of trees by the little inn, and out onto the main street, using filled-up potholes as jumps just as my brother had taught me. I would have a honeysuckle flower in my mouth, and once all its nectar was gone I would grab another off a bush as I rode by.
I would always stop at the intersection of the main street. Across the sandy pavement was the Inlet, the only store in town, which would hold the alluring promise of candy and soda and grilled cheese (not just any candy, by the way – the Inlet stocked all the best kinds, like gummy bugs and sour “earwax” and Toxic Waste gum). If I turned right, I would ride across the bridge and through a sort of saltwater marsh until I hit the highway; if I turned left, I would ride along the edge of the fen until I reached my house, which was called The Palace and had an American flag out front and for some reason had turf carpeting on the stairs. After little deliberation I would cave to the call of the Inlet, and, after eating at the sun-baked picnic tables outside, ride home having trouble holding my bike’s handles due to all the grease on my fingers.
I have never seen a fen anywhere else in the world, or at least not one like that – it was as wild and impenetrable as the most fearsome jungle, walled on all sides by grass thick like corn stalks and taller than my dad. It was about the size of a city block, and from somewhere deep inside it came the incessant twittering of a thousand birds and the hum of uncountable insects. As I rode by I would lose myself in daydreams of all the treasures and wonders deep within, and I would, if asked, assert without hesitation that surely some undiscovered species, maybe even the last of the dinosaurs, was hiding right in the middle. The fen was forever taunting me – I wanted more than anything to explore it, but I couldn’t. It was simply too dangerous. If I didn’t get lost, I would get kidnapped by pirates; if not that, I would get eaten by tigers; if not that, I would fall down a bottomless pit. All I could do was pedal by and gaze longingly into its depths, thinking that someday, I might finally be big enough to brave the vast, unimaginable wilds calling to me from right across the street.
I would spend the rest of the day hunting for rabbits and picking blueberries and climbing trees and boogie boarding and trapping horseshoe crabs the size of dinner plates at the yacht club and exploring the rocks dunes that flanked the beach. At night, after dinner, I would go out and meet the rest of the neighborhood kids for a game of manhunt. I played every single night, always miraculously arriving from dinner at exactly the same moment as everybody else, and once the game ended we would always head back to my house for grilled s’mores, which would be ready the second we all came, laughing, out of the darkness and into the spotlight created by the bulb above the front steps. I still believe that the field created by our connected yards was the world’s best place to play manhunt. It had two rocks at the opposite ends for base and jail, and was divided lengthwise by a hedge with a single opening that you could dart through to escape a seeker if you timed it just right.
I would go to sleep that night with my room lit by the glow of fireworks in the distance, their rhythmic whoosh-pop-sparkle the perfect lullaby. As I stared up at the ceiling, soft blues and reds would fade in and out in and out in time with the far-off sounds, and if I raised my hands above my head I could make giant, eerie shadow animals on the walls. Back then, I would never try to fall asleep. I would just lie there, watching the lights and hearing the sounds of the ocean and the fireworks and the fen, and sleep would creep up on me while I wasn’t paying attention. The next morning, I would wake up to glazed doughnuts from the place in the next town over, put on some sunscreen, grab my bike, and do it again.
I recently returned to that little town for the first time in five years. Since my last summer there I have endlessly longed to return, filled with only happy memories of perfect summer days. As I came down the highway toward the intersection of Main Street, the heavy, fishy smell of the saltwater marsh invaded my car and filled my whole body with an overwhelming sense of warmth and anticipation. But the town I returned to was not the one I had left. The Yacht Club was being renovated. The inn was gone. The Inlet sold only normal candy, nothing neon green and certainly nothing that would be suitable for making an older sister grimace in disgust. I was horrified to find that I had grown taller than the grass in the fen, and could now see a ways into the middle. But worst of all, someone had put up a fence in the middle of my old manhunt field. For a moment I felt sorry for myself, but then I realized I was being selfish. I had already had my perfect childhood summers here. I had gone on every adventure, scraped every knee, watched every sunset that town had to offer me. I realized that I should really feel bad for all the kids that spend their summers there now, who will never experience the perfect manhunt field or candy earwax or bingo night at the dinghy old yacht club. What a fate.