At the Lake, we jumped off the dock and swam in the water. We felt the mud in our toes. We took out the kayaks and the paddleboard. We took out the motorboat and rode the jet ski.
We arrived on Sunday late at night, and the Lake was pitch black. From the kitchen, you couldn’t see far past the windows into the grass. I always forget how big the lake is and how large the expanse of grass is between the house and the water. And then when I walk into the kitchen first thing in the morning, the light and size of the lawn and the colors of the sky and water are such a pleasant surprise.
The Lake also has a particular odor. The water is silty. If you open your eyes underwater, you can hardly see a thing. It is filled with the tiny particles of the mud of the lake. The odor to my mind is of that brown silt, the muddy stuff suspended in the solution around our bodies, filling our nostrils cool and smooth. I remember so much about the water. Catching Miles when he first jumped in. Wading into the cold with the tentative boys, before they became great swimmers and went far out on their own.
Even in the winter, we walked out onto the ice and heard it cracking beneath our boots. We watched the trucks drive onto the ice to the fishing huts. We threw chunks of ice where a few months earlier we had splashed in the water. Me and Owen and Miles and their friends.
There is so much in the water and along the shore. So much in the grass and in the yard next to the house where we spread out a blanket and dumped the box of Legos and spent an afternoon building ships and houses with Arj. Every square foot has a memory.