(no subject)
Inside the gates of Kill-Kare State Park I help my mother unpack the car, carefully lifting the bikes off, untying the boats and neatly stacking everything on the dock, then I’m free to wander around the park. Impatient to get to the island, I rarely take the time to see this place clearly. From where I stand it spreads out, an open green lawn in front of the main building, a light blue house where Steve and his family used to live. A snippet, a fragment of something ten years ago hits me with the force of years echoing through my mind, I’m seven, standing on the bottom of the stairway, looking up the long long set of stairs, afraid of the dark at the top. Running up, two at a time until I’m to the top. Around the corner I look, the kitchen, warm and welcoming even in the cold, dark, dismal light. This memory isn’t complete, but somehow it fits with this world of memories. Walking past the building, I slip out of my shoes, feeling the grass under my toes. I run, leaving behind my mom, past the gazebo, past the old tree to the swing set. I’m six, my first time here, Mom and Dad got here too early for the ferry, so they set me free to play, telling me not to go to the water - instead I sat on the swing set, watching the sea gulls dance in the air. This time, I swing, higher and higher… The sky is a light blue, hazy and warm - like that feeling of waking up after a long nap in the sun. The stones hit my feet every time I go near the ground. Hot and painful, I wince slightly, then swing up into the sky again. The sudden jolt of the entire swing set tells me I’ve gone too high, so I jump, hoping that I don’t hurt myself. The ground hits me, hard and painful. I lie where I’ve landed for a moment, taking in the cool feel of the grass. It isn’t the same as at home. This grass is softer, kinder and less bristly. The soft breeze off the water makes me think of the water. One last thing I need to visit before leaving the mainland; I skip, only here, away from the real world, am I allowed to skip. Seventeen going on eighteen year-olds aren’t supposed to skip anymore. The trees create a barrier against the water. I have to climb over briars, shrubs, and through a couple of trees before I can stand on the wide flat rocks that descend into the water. Careful not to slip and fall I walk out on the slimy rocks until I’m knee deep. I can’t go any farther because of the (now) rolled up jeans. Standing there I look at the two islands lined up. I wonder (like every time) if it is possible to walk out to Mosquito Island, but I don’t have time today - the ferry will be here soon, and I want to be on time, as mom is kayaking out, leaving me with all the bags.