When I was eight, my parents took my brother and me to a cabin on a little island on a freshwater pond in New York State’s 
Adirondack Mountains. We were able to drink the water. There were wild blueberries growing on the opposite shore. I could lie on the dock and see big brown bass swimming in the water below me. But, most magical of all, there were dragonflies. Blue, green, purple and near-translucent dragonflies.
One sun-drenched afternoon, I sat on the dock and stretched out my legs. I closed my eyes for a few minutes, the better to feel the sun and the breeze. I felt something tickle my leg, as softly as one might feel the flutter of an eyelash on skin. I opened my eyes and saw a pale green dragonfly sitting on my leg. I caught my breath. A blue dragonfly landed next to the first, then a gold and brown-striped one. I wanted to call out to my mom to come and see, but I somehow knew that the moment was simply for me. I sat perfectly still till my legs ached. A cloud passed over the sun and the dragonflies took off.
Bleak November of the same year, my mom tried her second suicide attempt. She was taken off to the hospital. My dad hired a housekeeper who cooked weird food. I had learned by then to seek shelter in the tiny local library. One afternoon I asked the librarian to help me find pictures of dragonflies. She handed me an insect identification book. I spent hours till the library closed looking at dragonflies – shimmering like gold, pale green as new apples, soft purple as the last of a sunset over a Northern New York State pond.
Your turn: When I was eight…
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