The for-sale sign looks out of place. It is red; stark contrast against the gentle green hues that drape the rest of the lawn. Clouds blot the sky, and the lake is dull and shimmerless. The garden is full of weeds. There were days not so long ago when the garden was in full bloom, when tangled asparagus, fragrant mint, and tiny, sour strawberries were tended to by gentle hands. But it’s not the garden I will miss the most. It is the memories, once rejuvenated each year as we travelled on winding dirt roads to the house I loved so much, that I fear will escape from my mind as time marches on.

The house was modest in size, but it did not lack in comfort. The kitchen was cozy and bright, and smelled of grandma’s cooking whenever we stepped inside. The always- open screen porch door let in fresh summer breezes and a purely charcoal scent from the grill that grandpa would cook ribs and burgers on until they reached a crisp perfection.

Upstairs was my mother’s old bedroom, with a skylight that always leaked water onto the bed when it rained. Whenever I slept there during summer thunderstorms, the tickle of raindrops on my nose would wake me from my slumber.

My sisters would share the bunk bend in the room that my uncles once slept in. The top bunk accumulated a secure railing after my sister, only four years old at the time, tumbled off of it and fortunately, into my grandma’s ready arms.

The basement was always cool in the summer, and it was many a night that I would play Ping-Pong down there with my dad or mom as my grandpa’s fingers brushed the keys of an old family piano, the familiar lullaby of his music eventually pushing me with a gentle hand up the stairs and off to bed.

But the best part was the yard. The creaky wooden swing that we pushed cousins on way too high, the flowers on the side of the driveway, the undergrowth that snaked around the perimeter of the property where we’d throw watermelon rinds after devouring the fruit.

We would play hide and seek deep into the evening, when stars would slowly sprinkle across the indigo sky and mosquitoes would hum at our ears and nip our sunburnt arms and legs. I would always crouch behind the zucchini in the vegetable garden, digging my knees into the dirt and pressing my face into the sweet-smelling mint. I would never tire of the excitement that running around on the cusp of night gave me every time we played. And the cousins never discovered my hiding spot.

When day broke and the sun spread like a yolk across the sky, we would watch cartoons on the often spotty TV in the den, waiting for our parents and Grandma and Grandpa to wake up. Grandma made homemade waffles in the morning, and we devoured them with berries and maple syrup. After breakfast, we would run upstairs and yank on bathing suits, already in anticipation of swimming later in the day.

The house was on Lake Raponda, a large, clear jewel surrounded by Vermont’s finest green peaks. A steep, grassy incline took you from the back of the house down to the wooden dock on the lake. We spent hours on end at that dock, swimming in the water and fishing for lily pads with choice sticks and branches. The bottom of the lake was always mysteriously mossy and squelching with mud, so we often lugged down a water tube for those less inclined to brave the lake bottoms.

Sometimes, we’d untie the old, red canoe from a tree next to the dock and paddle across the lake to the public beach, using oars to swaddle the cobwebs on the seats so they were clean enough for sitting.

The beach was a strip of brittle sand and weedy grass. But, through a child’s eyes, it was a summer paradise, and we would spend hours upon end building sand castles there, complete with moats, turrets, and flags made of sticks and leaves. The lake water was perennially cool, yet never stopped us from wading. Deep into the water we would walk, shivering only a little, and jumping up and down in the tiny waves created by passing motorboats and water-skiers. When we were old enough to swim, we would venture out to the raft in the middle of the swim area and jump, dive, and push each other off of it.

Late in the afternoon, we returned home, rinsing off our sandy feet and hands before playing in the yard and helping grandma set the table for dinner. She would make delicious summery soups, fresh salads, and homemade cornbread to accompany grandpa’s ribs, burgers, and hot dogs.

Dessert would be s’mores, which we would roast over the dying sparks on the charcoal grill. Grandma had sparklers, which we would strike with matches and watch with giddiness and amazement as their light danced before our eyes. I, however, was never very good at lighting them, and mine always coughed a trail of thick, black smoke instead of the tiny, white sparks that everyone else’s seemed to emit.

When the cover of night draped over the house, Grandpa brought out his telescope and we would gaze at the endless curtain of stars, shining like floating orbs in the nighttime sky. Even at night, the sky always shone, and we went to bed without nightlights, the twinkling stars illuminating the bedrooms with a familiar glow.

Our last vacation at the Vermont house was solemn. The house seemed older and dustier, boxes cluttering the hallways and bedrooms. We canoed one last time before lugging the boat up the hill and onto the driveway. It rained the last day of vacation, and I stood outside for an hour so the heavy showers would conceal my tears. The rain drops merged with the salty waterways on my face, flowing down my cheeks and onto my neck like a brackish river of sadness.

We took some pictures that last vacation to remember the house. But the pictures can only do so much. You can’t tell by looking at the photo of me and my sister holding half-eaten s’mores what the goopy marshmallows tasted like on a hungry tongue, their hard browned shells concealing a fluffy inside. Soon I’ll forget which floorboards creaked, which mattress squeaked, which rock in the lake was the slimy one that we would always slip on, making our clean clothes soggy with lake water.

Pictures are bad at conveying feelings, and words can only do so much. It is memories that bind us together, that shape our childhoods. It is memories that define experience and mold our pasts into something we value. It is memory that we have when everything else is gone, when our childhoods come to a close and we are forced to let go.

One year later, I take the car and drive. I go from highway to dirt roads; from multi-story buildings to farmhouses, cows, and covered bridges. Rivers run next to the car, and I follow the current until, between the trees, I see a shimmer in the distance. My heart pounds. I drive closer, and all at once Lake Raponda unfolds before my eyes. Gorgeous as ever, still shimmering in the late afternoon sun, it waits for me.

I drive around the lake and turn onto one familiar street. And at the end, sitting patiently on the cul-de-sac, is the house I loved and missed so much. I drive down the dirt driveway for a clearer view, and realize that the house has changed.

A man is standing outside the front door, watering a plant that I don’t remember seeing before.

“Hello?” I ask. He jumps, startled.

“Um, hello ma’am. Can I help you?”

“Well, this house…” I swallow, nervous. “It’s where I grew up, sir. Every summer I would come here, with my entire family. This house, it basically defines my childhood. It’s… It’s the most special place I’ve ever visited.” I shakily exhale. The man shifts his feet nervously.





“Well… Would you like to see inside?”




“I’d love that, sir!” I say, regaining my confidence. He leads me inside, and the kitchen looks mostly the same, but the fridge is bare where pictures of the grandchildren used to hang, and Grandma’s little home-sweet-home sign is gone. I sniff the air, and the once-familiar charcoal scent fails to find my waiting nose.

We walk into the living room, and I realize that a flat-screen TV has replaced the tiny box that we used to watch cartoons on. The couches are stiff and spotless and look like they’ve never been touched.

I look out the window at the lake, and see that a large motorboat is parked by the dock. Grandma and Grandpa hated motorboats—they pollute the lake and create waves that have turned our red canoe over before. And on the porch, a large gas grill replaced our little charcoal one.




We walk outside, and my heart breaks.





“Where did the vegetable garden go?” I ask.


“Well, my wife and I, we don’t, um, like to garden,” the man says. We stand in silence for a few long moments.

“This is where our swing used to be,” I finally say, pointing to an empty spot in the middle of the lawn.




“I see,” he says. I walk towards the porch.


“This is where the hammock went,” I laugh. “My grandpa used to fall asleep in it, and we’d shake it until he woke up!” He smiles half-heartedly. We walk down to the dock. “This dock right here, this is where we would lay down for hours in the sun—talking, fishing for lily pads, playing games, and splashing in the water”.




“Uh huh,” he nods.

“And this tree—this is where we kept our canoe! It was always full of spiders, but we would dust off the webs with sticks and ride in it across the lake to the main beach”.

We walk back up the hill. “This is where the vegetable garden was,” I point. “And this is where I hid for hide and seek,” I say quietly, “with my knees in the dirt and my face in the mint.” I stop, staring longingly at the house that was once mine. This man had no idea how lucky he had it.

“I see you loved this house,” he said after a pregnant pause.

“Yeah, I really did,” I say, staring at the lake and digging my sneaker into the dirt.

“Well, um, you can come back whenever you want,” he offers in a weak, almost pleading voice.

“Thanks, I will,” I said, and I shake his hand, get back into the car and drive off, the lullaby of country roads slowly easing my wounded heart.

But I know I won’t. Because there’s no point in going back when the house isn’t the same, and the vegetable garden and hammock and canoe are missing, and the people that made the house so special won’t be there.

So it is the memories I cherish so deeply that I will always come back to when I’m feeling alone and missing those childhood summers the most. These memories won’t ever change, and as long as I remember, that little Vermont house will stay the same forever.