Youthful Days

As a young boy, a walk to the end of the road meant walking around a small gate. Beyond, the asphalt gave way to a dirt path that meandered through the woods, encouraging exploration and imagination. This pathway ended at the the edge of a reservoir, a body of water that appears, in my mind, as a pristine, almost mirror-like surface reflecting an autumn sunset of deep blue, amber, yellow, orange and purple. everywhere but in front of me the dry leaves rustle in the trees, poised to fall to the ground at any moment to add their color to the bright mosaic on the ground.
Under the water lies the remains of a town that gave way to the needs of a city, a place enveloped by water needed by fellow citizens nearly 100 miles away. I'm confident the residents of the town wrangled with the issues of their day before moving on that others might have access to important resources, but the townsfolk still had to leave their homes, to move on, to move away.
It is in this place at the edge of the reservoir that I find myself on this day as I reminisce about days gone by, days filled with learning, play, friends, and the satisfaction of enjoying the simplicities of life. This is a life long before homework, research papers, mortgages or car payments, years before a professional career and days spent commuting to and from an office. The Quabbin Path is an escape route to solitude, a place to think, a place to remember, and a place to look forward at the simple beauties of life unhindered and unencumbered by the trappings, accoutrements, and responsibilities of adulthood.
It's been years since I've visited the path and I'm confident that "progress" has drawn closer to the waters edge at the end of the path, but my memory if that place at the waters edge is as clear as the water I remember.
This is a place at the waters edge where I can find peace and quiet, write, remember, and look forward.