It was far further than that.
It was at least 20 minutes past Rose's garden.
No map could show the way there. You would need the services of a Lewis and Clark pair such as my best friend, Craig and I, to manage the way. To this day, I can barely remember, and I doubt whether Craig can either.
The trek was a long one -- past Rose's garden across the rest of the backyard and up the riverbank. We followed the bank left through the sun, then through the trees, around the end of the slough where the dead fish washed up in the mud. We called that "Fish Grave."
Our mothers could always tell when we'd been there.
Picking our way through the driftwood and occasional decay, we'd zag our way across to the pennisula where the "Forest of Mysteries" held the stories we made. As we walked through the underbrush, looking for flowers and signs of humanity, we once described an entire village and the events of a battle that took place to keep it safe.
A massive granite boulder stood, near a path we knew. That was the "Resting Rock," where we thought important thoughts of important days. It was there we decided who we would be. It was there we determined how the world worked. It was there that we deemed the best movie of the year.
When we stood on that rock, we could see clear 'til next Sunday.
Just beyond, "The Resting Rock," when we were lucky, if we looked at the right time of year, we could find a path to a tiny, leafy place. There . . . just about 20 minutes beyond Rose's garden, where we couldn't go until we were over 10 years old . . . is where the fairies are. That's where dreams and wishes are made. That's where magic and happiness happens. Smiles start. Hearts warm. Kids aren't afraid.
It's a real place where the fairies are.
When you've seen clear 'til next Sunday, some things you know never fade.
--me strauss Letting me be