Lake House

A place of dog eared memories.

Afghans crocheted by aunts no longer remembered. Corners bundled with pine walking sticks and wooden snowshoes. The wicker chair that sits rocking next to the fireplace.

A patchwork cocker spaniel pillow still sits on the window seat. Green backgammon board, bereft of pieces, on the kitchen table.  The metal telescope where I saw my first ring of Saturn waits by the window.   All forgotten now.

The lake watches from outside the windows. The glint of the silver boat we would row to the end of the lake. Young arms extended to score the water with curious, dangling fingers.

We’d go slowly past the park at the end with the Ferris wheel and tilt-a-whirl and pink cotton candy. Children throwing baseballs to win fuzzy yellow dogs and pennies to win fancy glass dishes. We weren’t stopping by today. Maybe on Thursday.

And as the sun went down we’d sit on the screened in porch and have cherry drinks in glasses with bird pictures on them.

My father would grill frankfurters and my mother would cut strawberries. The day was over. Black inner tubes put under the porch. Wet striped towels clothes pinned on the line.

The sounds of those summers still haunt me. The stairs now silent of steps.

The laughter absorbed into the boards and battens of my childhood.

Lake House.