There was a time when the village I came from wasn’t just a long stretch of houses with gray roofs, ending either in a quiet marsh or a thick wood. That wood had dirt paths for bikes, worn by kids before us, and I never dared to ride past the place we called “the SPOT.” That’s where my world ended. Beyond it lay the unknown—or maybe just the fear of getting lost.

In that wood stood a treehouse perched in an oak like a secret kingdom. We climbed it bare-handed, bark under our nails, hearts pounding against the uneven planks. Below, a river wound slowly, heavy with summer heat. The water’s surface shimmered with oily iridescence, like crushed pearl on glass. We never called it pollution; we just said, “That’s how it is.” Next to the woods lay a dump site, bordering a neighborhood of mobile homes whose metal roofs glinted in the sun. Kids from both sides saw only one big playground. We ran, shouted, and drew imaginary borders between mud and gravel.

What stayed with me most was that unbroken familiarity. Everyone knew everyone. We’d dash down the streets, ring doorbells just to ask if anyone was free to play, talk, or hang out. Neighbors handed us baskets of sun-warmed tomatoes, heavy squash, sometimes a homemade cake wrapped in newspaper. Summers smelled of damp earth and simmering jam. Winters turned the village into a white expanse where we’d head out in snowshoes or on skis, poles planted deep in the powder, breath catching as the cold bit our cheeks. I never cared for snowboarding—too much speed, not enough quiet. I preferred the crunch of branches under snowshoes, the slow, almost meditative rhythm of cross-country skiing.

Today, when I think back to that village, I don’t see houses or roads anymore. I see the soft light filtering through autumn leaves, the smell of woodsmoke in the morning, laughter bouncing off garage doors. The SPOT might not exist on any map now, but it’s etched in my memory as a sacred boundary—the place where childhood stops being a location and becomes a state of mind. And sometimes, when I walk alone on a bike path or catch sight of an oily puddle after rain, I remember. I remember we never needed GPS to know where we belonged. We knew it by the sound of a door opening, by a hand reaching out toward us, by those old days—so simple, so deeply ours.

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