The Age of Innocence: A Memoir

Age of Innocence: One Tiny Patch in the Quilt of Summer Memories :

(fiction/written in response to a writing challenge)


Thinking back on summers spent in Maine, I recall those early mornings--slipping out the kitchen door with my brother while the house was still quiet. We'd race the few blocks to the town dock to watch the tide change, and enjoy the odd assortment of fishermen hosing down their boats before going off to fish for the day. The long row of painted fishing boats lined up nose-first against the dock created a perfect Pollock canvas in the early morning sun--carnal, colorful, and crimson red from the previous day's catch. With little time for lingering, the fishermen hurried to start up their boats, engines coughing and sputtering. One by one, the fishing boats motored off, disappearing through the narrow inlet to the open sea.

My most precious memories are of summer evenings spent sitting on the covered stone terrace at my grandmother's house with my mother, siblings, a glut of little children, and the dog with no name whose sole reason for being was begging for table scraps and sleeping soundly with a full belly at my grandmother's feet.

Children giggling, and sparring, the littlest of the group captured and released fireflies in a kind of slow-motion dance in the darkened meadow. One by one, we'd yield to early summer's sweet grass, lying on our backs staring up at the confluence of clouds, moon, and stars in the crowded night sky. Tufts of little songs half sung slipped into the dark night's immeasurable abyss. We'd listen intently to the night breezes surging through the pine trees whining and sighing. Soon, we retreated to our rooms to read and talk in whispers, warm beneath old feather comforters. I fell asleep listening to the tree branches scratching the window panes with comfortable repetition and the muffled sound of my grandmother moving around in the kitchen below, setting the table for the morning meal.