A Special Place by the Shore Teen – Adult

Crystal clear water laps at the shore, glistening as light from the sun catches their peaks one after the other, like morse code. The water trying to speak to me. A gentle breeze pushes the waves towards land. The gradient of light blue through to dark is mesmerizing, like a trance that taunts me to jump in. A giant, the lake slumbers in the bottom of the valley, keeping its secrets hidden in its belly. Toes dip, daring to test the water. Never really knowing if it will be cold, or extremely cold.

Stones smooth and flat cover the shore. Ranging from tiny and almost non existent, to boulders unable to be moved. Giants. Smaller ones lay there patiently: waiting for me to pick them up, waiting to show me their skimming capability, waiting for a purpose in life. Pitter patter, screams of triumph, and the never ending contest of who can skim the best. Ever watchful parents fuss and worry over us, their children. Slip, slop, slap and wrap, a phrase I have outgrown but still I can not escape. laughing at the younger kids that have to suffer their mothers cold hands; they are smothered in sunblock. Friends call me over to hidden places among the trees that line the beach, as the overwhelming chirp of the cicadas causes me to strain my ears. Quiet conversations about crushes, and boys barely audible. There is a gentle rustle of leaves as they collide in the wind, dancing along the ground and calling for attention. Wanting to join in on the conversation. Staring up in awe at two giant gum trees, their trunks are like a couple of snakes, twisted together. strong.

A magical filter blankets this valley, fueled by young wonder and passion. Surrounding mountains baked by the sun. Golden Brown, like pastry on a pie. My eyes are drawn to all the bright and interesting bits, emerald grass waving hello, tended to and looked after, while the old tents, new tens, big, small and wise old camper vans sit there, watching over everything. With sharpened stones my friends and I leave our mark on the trunk of a small willow tree. Palm sized hearts with our initials inside along with our crushes, carved into the wood like a scar. A little voice in the back of my head asks me a question. Will i remember this place?

The water is still, the rocks clearly visible under the surface. Cast by the sun light still reaches the lake, but he reflection is dull. The water no longer speaks to me. It has grown silent and bored in my absence, and the deep blue colour now looks menacing, dark, and almost haunting. No trance or magical feeling, no desire to suffer the frigid lake. A body of water, nothing more. The once familiar murmur of waves, now only created by wading feet, owned by those brave enough to face the cold.

Weathered stones, shrunken over time coat the ground. Boulders I used to see as giants now look small. Insignificant. No longer a competition, but a relaxing activity, I pick and choose my stone carefully. Piter patter, then sound of silence and a sigh of relief. I am forever watching. Energetic bundles of joy frolic without a care in the world. My overwhelming need to protect them from everything takes over, as I try to withhold myself from smothering their delicate skin in another layer of sunblock. Friends call me over to the BBQ talking business, and children. The chirp of Cicadas still consumes all other noise, an argument were everyone is talking at once. Leaves now litter the ground, having lost their passion for dance, and no longer interested in the conversation. The two gum trees taller now, still twisted together. Intertwined lovers. Broken and bent by the strong winds that have tormented them over the years. old.

There is no longer a filter covering this valley. Now seeing it was once fulled by my innocence. The ancient beauty now lacking its usual flair. The pastry has slowly crumbled over time, cooked to long in this unforgiving oven. It is still beautiful, just not the same. Grass, once emerald green, Now matured into the evergreen colour of pine, as tents still sit there propped up on their legs, colourful and bold. Camper vans no longer watch, they just lay there, some new, some old and in every shape and size. Awkward. Holding a small fragile hand, we look up at the once small willow tree, now grown tall, with warped shapes scared into the bark. Once hearts with teenage girls hopes and dreams inside. A small voice beside me asking me a question. What are we doing here? Remembering.