The Pond

There is a pond at my dad's farm. He had it dug out about 15 years ago, and there is a funny story about how he drove to someplace in West Virgina to get the floats for the dock and they fell off the truck onto the highway, etc. The pond was a dream, that he finally fulfilled, even though he already had dug a cement pool that was clean and clorinated most of the time. The pond was au natural, stocked with game fish and crowded with the kind of plant life that stagnant ponds like. I preferred the pond, really, because the water was always cold and the dock reminded me of other bodies of water I swam in when I was a child. The dock at the pond is greying and warped now. The storage box near the bank is full of aging life vests, sized for children, but unsuitable now for any child to wear. The box is also full of dried vegetation and probably scary things like wasps and snakes. It made me a little sad to remember when the pond was new, and the place filled with splashing cousins and laughter, the paddle boat was not filled with decaying leaves and my father was strong and in charge of everything. Fifteen years have changed the place, but not the memories. I can hear the laughter still, above the humming of the bees, not sad but full of life.