"The Pond"
by John McGondel. C. 2003

I grew up. Well I was raised. Oh what the heck, a lot of my childhood was spent down at the local pond. It was a great area to go to get away from everything; it was magical. Somehow the government had actually done something right for a change and they decided to not allow the area around the pond to be built on.

There must have been a hundred acres of woods, fields, streams, and meadows. Rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, pheasants, partridges, snakes, frogs, turtles, and fish. They even let a couple of pairs of foxes loose to try to see if they could be reintroduced to the area. Everything a kid like could want. There was this big elm tree that had these branches that spread out away from the trunk and hung down to the ground. It was like a private room under there, and I would sit for hours and either read or sometimes just study nature or think. The summer air would be so peaceful, and the water in the pond was clear and cool to swim in. the fishing was always good, and I had a boat that I hid in the woods. I would pedal my bicycle down there every day if I could, and drag the boat to the water; then I would let it drift with the lazy current and carry me wherever it wanted to.

I never thought those days could end. To be that young and free again.

But everybody has to grow up sometime, and so did I. High School, girls, dances, work. And marriage. And kids. I always meant to bring my daughters down there, but for one reason or another it was just never the right time. Now one of them is 21, and the other one is 16. I don't think that they have the time now to go there with me, but I decided to return by myself last week, without them, for one last visit. I was anxious yet afraid. Afraid that it was all just a dream, and that what was there was now gone. I suppose I was trying to time-travel in my own way.

But to my amazement, it was the same, as if I had never left. Even that big elm tree was there, older, not as many leaves, but still it was the same. I think it has been waiting for me for these past decades, knowing I would eventually return. It with less leaves, and me with less hair. I sat under the tree, and just thought. I thought about my life, and my dreams, and my family. It was a good feeling, sitting under that tree. I had to look real hard to make out the scar that was there from when I had carved my name with my Boy Scout knife a million years ago. My father had given me that knife, and I had never been without it since.

I was just laying back, contentedly, when I heard voices calling out to each other. I peeked out from under the tree and saw two boys walking down the trail beside the tree. They couldn't see me, and I made no noise. I watched as they put their fishing rods down and took out some sandwiches from their backpacks. They each had a comic book, and they sat across from each other, cross-legged like Indians, and read.

They didn't say anything for a long time, and I could tell that they must have come there often. As I sat there frozen in time, I noticed that a few feet from me, also under the tree, was a wooden box that I had not seen. I opened the box and inside it were some comic books and some fishing lures. There was also some candy and some matches. I realized then that it was I who was the intruder, and not they. I thought some more, then I took out my Boy Scout knife, the same one I had used so many years earlier to carve my name in the tree. I placed it in the wooden box and I gently closed the lid. Then I quietly slipped away from under the tree and away from the area. It was a long, thoughtful, and peaceful ride back to my family.

Along the way I thought to myself that they say you can never go back. I now knew that they were wrong, because sometimes you never leave. And always there is a new you.