I kept my thoughts to myself. Most people would have pushed and assumed they knew what I needed or what would be good for me. Eric offered space instead.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another Polaroid—one I hadn't seen yesterday. The image showed the far end of the rink, where the fence met a stand of young maples that had grown up through the boards.
Eric spoke quietly. "Nature's taking it back, but slowly. Like it's a respectful takeover."
I stared at the photograph. Something about the composition—how the organic and artificial elements had woven together—hit harder than I expected. It wasn't an image of destruction. It was a tribute to transformation.
Silence reigned. Eric didn't fidget or try to fill the quiet with unnecessary words. He waited.
Finally, I set my mug down on the porch rail. "Let me get gloves."
My tool shed sheltered remnants of projects I'd abandoned over the years—coils of rope with frayed ends, a rake with teeth bent from prying rocks out of stubborn soil, and work gloves stiffwith salt and old sweat. I grabbed what we'd need, testing the rake's handle for give.
Eric waited by the gate that marked where my property ended, and the island's wilder spaces began. He'd added a canvas jacket over his morning clothes. I offered him a machete while I carried the rake and clippers.
"Ready?" He was enthusiastic but kept his emotions under control.
"I know a shortcut." I nodded toward a path that disappeared into a tangle of beach rose and wild cherry. "Stay behind me for the first stretch. Some of these thorns will draw blood if you're not careful."
We fell into a single file. The path had been maintained in the past—probably when the rink was still active—but nature had spent years reclaiming what humans had carved out.
Sumac branches crowded the walkway, forcing us to duck and weave around obstacles. I used the rake to push back the worst, clearing space for Eric to follow.
After fifty yards, the path widened enough for us to walk abreast. Eric moved up, matching my pace without conscious effort.
"How often do you come this way?"
"Not often." I guided us around a small patch of poison ivy. "A handful of times over the years. Usually when the fence line needs checking."
"The whole island's like this, isn't it?" He gestured at the succession happening around us. "Human spaces getting integrated back into the natural ecosystem."
I paused to consider his observation. "Everything here is temporary. People like to think they're building permanent things, but the ocean has other ideas."
We reached a section where sumac had grown thick across the path, creating a tunnel of red-orange branches that forced us to stoop. I handed Eric my clippers.
"Cut close to the main stem with clippers. No machete. Sumac bleeds sap that'll dull your blade if you hack at it. One clean cut through the joint."
He followed my lead, working with more precision than I'd expected. When his elbow knocked against mine as we worked at the same tangle, neither of us pulled away immediately. The contact was brief and accidental.
"Like this?" Eric held up a severed branch for inspection.
"Good. Now, watch for the shoots coming up from the roots. Those need to come out, too, or you'll have the same problem next season."
We cleared a passage wide enough for easy walking. Eric asked practical questions—how to tell healthy wood from rotted and where to make cuts that wouldn't encourage regrowth. I explained techniques I'd learned through trial and error over the years.
By the time we'd cleared the worst overgrowth, our jackets showed scratches from thorns, and our gloves bore stains from plant juice. Eric had a smudge of dirt across one cheekbone, and his hair had collected a few small leaves.
I stepped back to survey our work. "Should be easier going from here."
"Thanks for showing me how to do that properly. I would have made a mess of it on my own."
We resumed walking, the rink still hidden somewhere ahead through the trees.
The fence appeared first—that same industrial-grade mesh I'd glimpsed years ago, now half-buried beneath Virginia creeper and wild grape vines that had woven themselves through every diamond-shaped opening. Eric pushed aside a curtain ofhanging vegetation, revealing the gate that had once controlled access to the rink.
The metal latch had seized with rust, but a few sharp blows from the rake handle convinced it to give way. The gate swung open with a groan.
"Wow." Eric stepped through the opening, his voice soft and surprised. "It's huge. Yesterday, I didn't make it through the gate."
