Vermont Public is independent, community-supported media, serving Vermont with trusted, relevant and essential information. We share stories that bring people together, from every corner of our region. New to Vermont Public? Start here.

© 2024 Vermont Public | 365 Troy Ave. Colchester, VT 05446

Public Files:

For assistance accessing our public files, please contact or call 802-655-9451.
Play Live Radio
Next Up:
0:00 0:00
Available On Air Stations

For information about listening to Vermont Public Radio, please go here.

Young Writers Project: 'The Summer I Was 15'

Noa Urbaitel
Noa Urbaitel is attending Mount Holyoke College in the fall.

Noa Urbaitel, Class of 2015 at Champlain Valley Union High School, has been writing with Young Writers Project since sixth grade. She is attending Mount Holyoke College this fall.

The Summer I Was 15
Noa Urbaitel
Class of 2015, Champlain Valley Union High School

I left my heart in Bridgton, Maine, the summer I was 15.
A tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy helped me hide it
underneath a blanket of shooting stars and beside some wooden cabins.
I’ve been searching for it for three years now
and when I tell him I can’t find it,
he looks at me with dark eyes, incredulous.
Don’t you remember? he implores.
We made a treasure map the summer we were 15,
wrote it against tongues and teeth beneath the summer moon,
traced the path with hesitant hands through hair
and marked the spot with love-stained fingertips.
I’ve been searching for it for three years now
and I’ll never forgive my 15-year-old self
for putting all my memories into my heart and hiding it,
for I have forgotten the words he wrote with his tongue and teeth,
and I can’t remember the path he made with his hands in my hair.
And for the life of me,
I can’t recall the spot he marked with love-stained fingertips
against my blushing skin.
I’ve been searching for it for three years now.
I’ve looked for clues in pictures and ink-stained letters,
in I love you’s and I’m sorry’s,
in Vermont and Maine and Massachusetts,
in the shooting stars and wooden cabins I see along the winding roadside.
Don’t you remember? he implores.
You trusted me to hold onto it for safekeeping
(that was your mistake, not mine).
I have it here,
inside my ribcage, next to my own.
I look at him with green eyes, incredulous.
X marks the spot.
And my love-stained fingertips match the mark I made against his heart
the summer I was 15.

Latest Stories