Quechee

The summer after our first year of college, I started going into new places, wondering if I could live there. Of course I could live in Vermont, in the small ski town of your childhood. We ate at Simon Pearce, accepted the small miracle of the corner table on the crowded porch. The brown rocks in the river, twenty feet below us, the lemon circles in our ice water. I remember going into the glass foundry under the restaurant, watching the artisans blow molten lumps into vases, tumblers, and I thought I could learn a skill, live in a small town. We went into the factory store after lunch, the clearance room where we sifted through all the beautiful things with their slight flaws. I bought a pair of mugs with their saucers, thought I could start to collect things, start churning out a life.

If I remember correctly, we went over to Woodstock after that, spent the rest of the day walking around, going into stores, pointing out the best porches, best gardens or window-shapes. I bought two old hats, one a cream beret that I've given away since, the other light-blue with a thin, curling feather. We got ice cream and ate it under the bridge. It was getting late at that point, and I remember it was a little too cold so close to the water. I remember realizing that I was running out of things to tell you, that the sun was going and that I was ready to go home, back across the state line.

Back to New England this summer, so soon. Back to the mountains, back to the coast. The first time I'll be home for summer in three years. Somehow, strangely, I'm returning the same as I left, or nearly: notions, but no plans, only a cup and a hat to my name.