We once built a dam at the foot of a giant culvert beneath a railroad track on a little creek maybe a quarter-mile beyond the back edge of our property in a little village on the Southeast edge of Rockford. My brother, our neighbor–a boy–and I. We were all in the neighborhood of fourteen years old. Can’t remember why we decided to build it. The thought just came to us and we did it by bringing brush from around the site, scooping up mud. We did it much like beavers might have done to build a dam and stop the flowing water to create a stillness and in the center of it to make a haven where we could be. The pond we created might have been thirty feet long by twelve feet wide, four or five feet at its deepest. Once it filled, a day or so later, we took off our all our clothes and swam–such as swimming might be accomplished in such a small space. We splashed mostly. Threw water up on each other, laughed and yelled. We brought an innertube with us. The neighbor, naked, just past puberty, centered himself in the innertube and floating said, “Here, sit on me.” I, not yet pubescent, straddled facing him, floated with him for some time. I don’t know where my brother went. Somewhere. Honestly, it was as innocent as puppies playing. Yet I felt a vague yearning. Had I had a name for that yearning then, I might have saved myself some pain in later life. All I knew at the time was it seemed like haven. Heaven. A place where I longed to be.