First published by Nightingale & Sparrow.

At the lake house, we skip flat rocks on flatter liquid surfaces, laugh when the wrist launch goes awry and the rocks skip upwards instead of outwards, kerplunk into the lake’s stomach. We lay flannel blankets on grass and pick at singular blades to see if the others notice one has been plucked from the woven fabric of their field. We take the boat out and cut the motor so we can hear the slap of the lake’s tongue flicking against the hull while we sip champagne, and rock gently side to side. We tug woolen sweaters over shoulders when the sun dips behind the swaying reeds at the edge of the lake and the frogs start their throaty croaking. We toss kindling into the fire pit and watch the steady swirl of the flame as it churns through our offerings and furls plumes of smoke winding across the top of the lake. We press graham crackers into sandwiches and drip marshmallow goo onto fingers and chocolate onto tongues. We dip bare toes into the blackness of water, fishing for a change in temperature, a warmth. We whisper secrets to the trees, tell them we love them, that they’re different from the trees back home, tell them to remember us when we leave.