I had been on the edge of the passenger seat for the majority of the ride, disregarding the seat belt that was choking the air out of my throat. My sister routinely scolded me for my restlessness, her eyes flitting between the road ahead and my fingers fussing with the radio knobs. Lowering my hand and pushing my shoulder blades back into the seat, I apologized—I had pleaded with her to take this drive out to our grandparents’ old cabin, after all. She continued on with the tale of her latest romantic endeavor, but my attention slipped to the speed limit and exit signs that were falling behind us.

It was an accident, the resurfacing of this cluster of memories. It usually is; the time and effort to go digging around through my mental archives for kicks has been dwindling these days.

A few weeks back, I was nursing a cup of steaming tea as old friends prattled over anything that came to mind. We were in a corner booth at our favorite lower class eatery. I ordered a fish sandwich instead of my typical grilled cheese. My companion across the table groaned in disapproval, proceeding to tell a zealous account of how his father had eaten the eyeball off his fish at dinner when he was a kid, and hasn’t been able to eat the stuff since. I laughed and changed my order to the usual, assuring the rest of my party that I didn’t mind the switch. I began to tell my ichthyophobic friend that he was not alone in his fish-related trauma.

My grandparents used to take my sister and me out to a patch of land every summer when I was younger. There was a decent-sized pond with a deck we could fish off that I adored until the day I went swimming in it. Not a minute after I had been lowered into the water, a catfish brushed up against my little leg. I was less than pleased, for I was flailing and wailing until someone plucked me out of the water. Being five years old, I had figured the fish would steer clear of me after all the trouble I had given them with my hook. We swam in a pink plastic pool after that. But years later, I still steer clear of wading in any water where the slippery creatures might be.

My story had sparked unrelated conversation that buzzed around me, but my mind stayed put. I hadn’t thought of those summer trips since my grandparents stopped taking us over a decade ago, but the memories were still uncannily clear. Most consider a vacation to be somewhere with a beach or a foreign language but my childhood getaway was a few hours downstate. I spent the next few days dusting off a mental panorama of this place—the narrow wooden cabin, the elliptical pond full of catfish and bullfrogs, the woods. There was a path that was covered in dense moss that was soft on the soles of our bare feet as we would go pick wild raspberries. There was also a water pump slightly on the side of the path that led out to the road. Oh, I loved that thing. It had a spigot and long silver handle that you tugged until water rushed out from underground. There was a drinking ladle that hung on the side. I liked the way the water tasted from it, the coolness reflecting off the metal onto my face.

Getting my work done had become impossible; I kept drifting off to this place in my mind. I knew the only way my mind would let it go was if I went there once more. This was easier said than done, for my grandfather turned the land over to my uncle years ago. I called my mother for directions, but she warned me it would not look the same as I had remembered. The property was unkempt and it was late October instead of June. I insisted that I didn’t mind and told her I would call when I came back.

I spent the rest of the day coaxing my younger sister into going with me since she had spent her summers there, too. At first, though, it was a hopeless attempt—she would have to blow off work, and maybe she had been too young to remember. This was not the case. Her memories were just as strong and plentiful as my own. My proposal to venture back after all these years sat well with her, so we planned to go in the morning.

So now, here we are—turning off the highway onto a main road, the pavement giving way to gravel after the first turn we make. The textured gray under the tires gradually turned into a dusty brown. We used to pick handfuls of tiger lilies, black-eyed susans, wild clovers, and carrot flowers on the sides of this road; natural foliage in the city paled in comparison. The wildflowers were gone now, or at least hidden by a blanket of fallen leaves. We pulled up alongside the padlocked gate, clad with the same old No Trespassing sign. When I was a kid, I believed when things were locked, it meant they were special but now it merely indicates I have some climbing to do.

The fence wasn’t high, and I heaved myself over to the other side, offering my sister my hand as she clambered over. The tips of the grass brushed against the middle of my calf as I took the lead up the overgrown path. The first familiar sight was the slightly rusting water pump peeking out through the weeds. I gave it a tug for old time’s sake, and it answered with a sickly gurgle as a small glob of brown sludge began to creep out of the spigot. It smelled worse than it looked. I turned behind me, but my sister had ventured ahead, so I ran after her. I was almost at her heels when she stopped abruptly, and my body slammed into her back before I hit the ground. The unexpected blow had knocked her out of the way, and as I lifted my head I saw why she had stopped.

The pond was gone. It must have dried up, or been drained intentionally. The cabin was in its place, but its steps were overcome by weeds, looking lonesome without the pond at its side. Sad even, as if the poor shack missed its watery companion. The birdhouse was on the verge of toppling over and the deck jutted awkwardly over the swamp-like muck. I waded through the grass and ascended its planks, taking a seat on its edge. The trees around me were littered with brown and gold, the wind was a biting cold, but I could close my eyes and feel the buzz of summer. The scent of dry leaves faded away and I could smell the warm summer air. The sad condition of this space couldn’t upset me; I was still there, oddly feeling the same peace of mind as if the years had never passed. I absentmindedly dangled my legs through the empty air below the deck. I had no need to worry; there wasn’t a fish in sight.