The hours I have spent in my grandfather's truck have been timeless, passed on a broken watch. During summers brighter than his favorite lighter, the truck is bright red with heat, familiarizing me with memories of a childhood spent in my favorite place.

In my grandparent's driveway there are reminiscences of a little girl's merry shrieks as she jumps from the worn edge of a truck onto concrete, dark with warmth. When she lands from her perfect, fault-free play-place, she scorches her toasted-brown blistered hands on cracked tarmac. My grandfather would see me, smile, laugh, light-up, laugh, smile; bad habits were nothing but lights.

As I grow the truck bed is a sense of a security, no longer a gymnasium. The bed's round ridges are sheets under where I lay; where I consider how many cancer-sticks it took to imbed that stale smell. With my eyes closed I breathe in the temperate smell of burns and tobacco, and read the muted words of the sunshine.

Winter days come, and the mask of air-freshener and smoke inside of the truck is protection from the cold of the world. This is why I hate the inside of my favorite place. I hold my head outside an open window to remember what real air is. Crisp. Fresh. My grandfather orders close it, scowls, lights up, scowls. He is scared of what is real. He loves only what he knows most.

Now the truck is a time-machine to my past, reminding me of everything that used to be. When my grandfather was happy, and wasn't being killed by comfort. I am jealous of the truck — my grandfather's second-best friend. It knows more than I. When dawn breaks the cracks in the cement are invisible, but the truck's comfortable aura glows in the darkness. I sit in the bed again, now as a teenager. The memories comfort me, and the security is a haven. It is where I remember. My tears streak the faded read paint, scratched with love and stained by cigarettes. Like my grandfather.

Somewhere in Rockland ,ME, there is a sanctuary against all things that are hectic and non-natural. The smells of the bay and,the noisiness of everyday hustle and bustle all seem to melt away in the garden of Mary Ann Small.

Mary Ann Small runs a business out of a log cabin in her backyard. Even though it is not natural, it seems to blend in with its surroundings. On the outside of the cabin you can hear a boom! boom! sound, like thunder. Her hand powered Loom makes very intriguing and brilliantly colored rugs out of rags and tattered clothing.

If you look past the cabin you see brilliant and interesting shades of green. You immediately get the feeling of other life-the bugs, small creatures, and other life. That feeling just overwhelms you because it is not a normal feeling to people who are used to human company.

The way to get into the garden is through a paper white fence which leads you into an oasis for natural life. You see a patio that has soil and light brown dirt over it with a couch that has a very floral accent to it. There are three chairs that have the same decor and a wooden accented table. Following past that you see a bird-bath made out of cement with an incredibly detailed outside, surrounded by green vines and leaves with shades of vibrant pinks, reds, blue, even a purple or two. As you follow the J-shaped path you see a miniature lighthouse, Fairy house on a stump, an alligator farm, a small camper, and a seemingly sunken and broken ship.

There is also a hammock connected to a wooden base built especially for it and a couple of planters. There are two huge trees about 4 feet wide and as tall as skyscrapers. In winter the white is overwhelming, as your imagination wanders you lose thoughts of everyday life. All the shades of green, red, pink, purple, and other colors are replaced by something just as amazing as them. Farewell reader.