There are many places in my life that are special to me, places close to my house and places far away. I love the vast forests of NH and the crisp cold water of Nova Scotia. The closest place to my heart is the brook behind my house. In my mind I can draw a detailed map of this brook, showing where the sand changes to clay, or when the water gets still and dark from the pine needles dropping in, or when it gets fast and cold and flows over the round rocks stripping them of their green algae. 

I owe most of my childhood memories to this brook. The people I have brought with me to wade into the swimming holes. Walking along the brook to where it outlines the grass field where we had cows and sheep and horses, you notice the pungent sweet smell of wild flowers. In this hidden habitat you will see large amounts of Japanese knotweed, ostrich fern, and eastern hemlock all growing tall, the knotweed with scars showing where our neighbor has tried to cut it down so it can't tower over his plot of maple trees. 

These days I don't visit the brook as often as I did as a child. Whenever I had friends over I always went down there with them. Me and my cousins would spend hours looking for the perfect sized flat rock that would fit in your palm, so perfect and smooth like a bird egg. A rock we would paint flowers and patterns on. These rocks, moved from their home in the bank, now live in our garden surrounded by basil and magnolias and tomato plants. And when it came late, and the parents were occupied, us kids would race back down to the brook. The water looked ethereal at dusk; it moved slow and sparkled in the dim light, little pools of white foam in the cracks between the large slats of granite. 

I see the brook as an old friend. One that I can't see a lot because of growing up and being busy. Although anytime I want to visit and feel the comfort of being somewhere alone, I know it will always be there for me.