A few months ago, there were no boats in this water, no piers stretching out their wooden arms, no canoe, only bare trees shuddering under the weight of winds from the North. A thick slab of gray ice covered this water, and a foot of snow covered the ice.
A long time ago — in the months of summer, at least — I thought this lake was the center of the World. School and teachers did not exist, homework and my paper route did not exist. Parents existed, but only on the periphery of the lake and trees and sunlight and thunderstorms. My fishing rod existed, and a canoe, and a few brothers, sisters and cousins. A girl existed too, but only in my hometown, which during summer months did not exist.
This watercolor is only a fragment of a memory. The sun has scarcely risen and we can hear waves slap against the shore and the murmur of crickets and frogs, but we can’t hear the crows in the cornfields on the far side of the trees. Children are still sleeping in the cottages nearby, but not for long. We’ll hear their cries and laughter throughout the rest of the day. Quiet will return at twilight when mosquitoes and fireflies emerge out of the dark and bats dart and swoop over the lake. Soon the children will be asleep again.
Tomorrow the sun will rise above the trees in this little corner of this little lake. Slowly July will pass into August and then into September. We’ll return to our hometown to find that it’s still there, just as we left it. Except perhaps for the girl.
Eventually we’ll learn that Summer has a twin who’s dressed in ice and snow, but still as beautiful as our imaginations can imagine.
