The first dive into the lake is a homecoming - she's so gentle right now, two feet of warm before the cold undercurrent, glassy surface, easy swimming. All the trees survived winter, and the house is sound, cool. I'm here, and things feel almost right. I wish SALM was here. He loves the woods, even though he's a city boy.
Saturday night, and there are cousins and friends, and all the young'uns have decided to make dinner, and I'm in charge. And here, too, is home - not the one I grew up with, but I love bossing everyone around the kitchen, seeing the meal take shape under five different knives. The parents stand back, mix drinks, offer advice to the younger ones. Allie and I share the stove with our easy dance, seasoning each others' dishes without asking, because we trust each other like that. She grates lime zest into the beans until they shimmer in my mouth. The peppers, onions, cukes, chard, potatoes and tomatoes are all from Tom, the grizzled gardener who owns a plumbing parts store and grows magic in his yard.
After the cousins go home, the house is quiet with just five. Allie, Jake, my mother and I play word games and curl up on the couch, singing - ballads and pirate songs, 70s folk-pop and college standards. I haven't sung in so long.
I hop up on the water skis for just twelve seconds - long enough to prove I can still do it (I'm not chicken!), but I still really, really hate water skiing. The cousins go after that, zipping around the lake like pros.
Today, there is enough rain to justify a trip into town - to the farmer's market, the library, maybe the pottery shed.
Always, always, there's promises whispering - you will come back here. This is where you belong, girl, in our sticky heat and snowstorms. You're welcome.
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