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I learned the hard way that everything looks different through the eyes of a child.
Some of my best childhood memories stem from trips to the family cottage, hand-built by my great-grandfather, in Forest Harbour, Ont., about two hours north of Toronto.
We would head north for a few weeks every summer. My younger brother and I would be woken up by our parents when it was still dark outside. We'd be crammed in the back seat of our SUV among piles of suitcases, sleeping bags, pillows and beach toys. The drooling mouth of our lovely German shepherd, Mozart, would rest on the back of the seats.
I knew we were close when we'd pass Grasshopper, an eccentric shop filled with tie-dyed wares that sat isolated along a buzzing rural highway. I remember stopping here once – my parents bought me an orange and white tie-dyed dress that I outgrew quickly.
By the afternoon, we'd pull up to our cottage in the middle of nowhere. At least, it felt like nowhere when I was a kid.
We'd traipse through the overgrown pathway up to the obnoxiously orange front door, throwing it open to begin our few weeks off the radar.
When I wasn't looking for birds at our home away from home, I would be down the road digging in a quarry filled with dusty ammonite fossils near a beautiful, large A-frame cottage.
We frequented two beaches, my mom tells me now. But I only remember one of them. It had huge slabs of rock on the left side of the water and reeds growing on the right.
The cottage was surrounded by forest.
Sometimes, my brother and I would bring two folding chairs into the middle of the woods and plant ourselves there among the towering trees and green ferns. We'd just sit there looking at the sky, seeing the breezy leaves of the trees lit up by the sparkling sunshine. If we listened really hard, we could hear the faint humming of traffic on the highway, miles away from our sanctuary in the woods.
The last time we were there, I was about nine years old. The cottage had stayed the same over the years, but the area changed. The cottage used to be quite a distance from its gravel access road, but the new paved road moved almost to our front door.
Eventually, the cottage had to be sold and I spent my summers in the city. I never found out who bought the cottage or what they did with it.
But lately, I've been thinking about it a lot. I'm 23 now.
My mom lives about a halfhour's drive from the property.
Not too long ago, I asked her if we could take a drive and find it. She warned me that she's already done this.
"Everything is different," she said. She couldn't find it any more.
But I wanted to see for myself. It can't be that different. My memories were so vivid and strong. Surely, I'd be able to find it.
We hopped in the car, eventually pulling into the small community we used to know. I asked my mom if we could stop at the beach I remembered. We pulled over on a gravel road and walked down a pathway to a clearing. This was the beach with the towering slabs of rock.
"The rocks aren't as big as I remember," I said.
My mom tells me they were only big because I swam next to them as a kid. The reeds are still there. But the beach is overgrown – the sand is filled with driftwood.
I haven't been here in 14 years and it looks as though nobody else has, either.
We get back into the car and continue, driving in circles. But my mom was right – the cottage is gone.
We see an A-frame on a distant hill, but can't figure out how to get to it. It must be the same one I saw as a child. But we're wildly grasping for any landmark.
All of the roads are now long driveways, with signs that make it difficult to investigate: "KEEP OUT. UNCHAINED GUARD DOGS ON PREMISES. NO TRESPASSING."
I want to keep exploring. I want to prove my mom wrong. More importantly, I want to prove to myself that something so wonderful from my childhood had survived the crushing, unforgiving march of time.
But the roads that once led to my refuge have been renamed, moved around or removed completely. I was so close, and still so far away.
It's a hopeless feeling when something so vivid in your memory – something that has made such an impact on your life – has been wiped from existence.
Admitting defeat, we turn around and go home – this time, for good.
But I hold the image of our cottage in my mind, always. After going through hundreds of childhood photos, I discover nobody took a photo of the front of the cottage – probably because we never thought we'd lose it.
Now, I have an apartment, a steady job and a serious relationship.
But when life moves too fast, I can't help but close my eyes and picture the bright orange door and the sunlight glittering through the trees.
Layla Bozich lives in Burlington, Ont.