The edges of my ears slightly frost over and the tip of my nose exhibits a slight undertone of red. It may be summer here, but there is something about the forest here. The fresh mountain air, always tinged with the smell of pine, is crisp enough to chill my skin causing a range of mountains to form on my arms resembling the mountain range I adventure on. My feet slide through the soft dirt of the familiar path which causes a dust storm to form at feet causing the scratches on my ankles from the tall dry grass to be accompanied by a layer of dust.This path is not maintained as well as it used to be. Yet another part of my childhood that has had an unfamiliar wilderness grow over it. Suddenly I freeze.

    Like a wave that has traveled across the entire ocean, my most cherished memories that have been repressed to the depths of my memory crash on the shore. All I get is a quick glance as I pass by. If I want to look for longer I have to do it from behind the tree line because I’m sure the new owners wouldn’t appreciate someone standing on the edge of their property and watching them. It is okay though, a glance is all I need for the memories to come flooding back. I may have been young when my grandparents still lived here, yet I can remember so many things about this place. As the musty, damp smell of the green forest that seems to be closing in on me in my state of remembrance fully fills my lungs, a nostalgic scent that will always have a place in my most cherished memories, my mind wanders back to years ago when I was running around the yard barefoot, with the luscious grass under my feet and the crisp yet perfectly pleasant air rushing past me.

The yard is big. Massive really. I never noticed when it belonged to me, back when it was my kingdom and served me whatever purpose I pleased. Now what was once an endless sea of dark, soft green is nothing but dirt. They have turned what is my childhood into a track for their dirt bikes. The new owners don’t understand this place, they don’t deserve to have my escape. My childhood. Spending summers at my grandparents’ house meant staying outside until late into the night when our hair was embodied in the beautiful yet persistent smell of a campfire, our stomachs filled with hotdogs and smores until we could not have some more and our bodies dotted in small, yet red and throbbing bumps yearning for relief from just one scratch. All the grandkids would trudge from the firepit to the backdoor in the dark of the night, completely drained from the days activities but excited because we all knew the exact same things would happen again tomorrow. It was routine, but we loved it. It was just what happened in this yard, and we never thought that this beautiful, viridescent and enchanted wonderland would belong to someone else. 

Most of what the eye can see is verdant in every direction. It is as though you’re being swallowed into a vast ocean that contains every shade of green. A thick, impenetrable wall of trees surrounds the house that is dark, close and thick, giving off a persona of seclusion and privacy, making the house seem as though it is its own world and protecting this world from the mysterious unknown of the forest that lay within reach. The plants and gardens that surround the lawn are dotted with vivid colors. It's the berries from the bushes. No matter how often or how much we picked, they never failed to fill our cups full. As we carried our prizes inside, our mouths were already watering, pining for the sweet yet bitter taste of a raspberry, even though I would sneak a few while we were picking. A faint trickle of the candied juice would run down the side of the cup and over our fingers, leaving a lingering, sticky red stain on our hands long after washed off. It is a feeling I will never forget, along with that of the fence. The cedar wood is rough under my hands. The imperfections in the surface of the wood threaten to penetrate my skin and stay wedged underneath the first layer causing constant pain until it either festers out in my sleep or I manage to pull it out with tweezers. But this is the only way. I cannot simply walk around the fence. I must go over it, despite the injuries that I will sustain in the process. The fence is simple, yet beautiful. I think it may have to do with the fact that my grandpa split the wood and built it himself. Although it is very plain, just two planks of wood, rough and uneven joined now and then two other two rows of wood by s cedar wood post, it has been exquisite enough for the new owners to leave it untouched. However, my sense of feeling has not remained untouched. The way the different surfaces of the yard felt have left an impression upon my skin as though I am still feeling the objects of my childhood that has stayed with me all these years.

    A faint whisper can be heard in the silence of nature. It is the sweet murmuring of the creek that runs by my grandparents’ property. Silence, as peaceful and appealing as it may sound, could not possibly be preferred over the gentle babbling of this creek. It is not distracting but rather drowns out the rest of the world, further contributing to the isolation and enchantment of this place. The sound of the babbling brook allows one to see blue in this world of green. But not for long as the rustling of the leaves in the treetops absorbs one’s thoughts back into the emerald nature around them that, as still as the trees may be, is as full of life as the bustling creek that rushes through it. In the summer, when all the grandkids spend the long summer days in the yard, their voices and laughter can be heard, slicing through the dense and seemingly impenetrable sounds of nature. The abundance of the sounds of these mountains infiltrate my mind and thoughts like a calming storm, distracting yet creating an allusive silence that causes me to live through my memories for a moment.

    And like that the memories begin to fade again. I have to keep walking along the path before my unwanted presence is noticed. My heart will once again yearn for the engulfing feeling of this yard . I have yet to find a batch of raspberries that has been as satisfyingly sweet as the ones grown in this place. Most of all, I want to run my hands along my grandpa’s fence and climb up on it to sit just one more time. All I want is just one more day in this yard.