The Cottage

All of the trinkets, all of the sayings on the wall that I was once too young to read, all of the tattered children's books tucked on shelves, coloring books tucked in drawers, animal sculls stuck on wreaths, little notes and ancient photos... they're all. still. here.  The slightly sandy carpet and the flowered chairs, the hats hanging in the front bathroom, all of which we promptly tried on. The driftwood - all the driftwood in it's tangled shapes, with it's ponderous facial expressions.  I'm taken so far back - farther back than I've gone in a while.  And they are all of a sudden still here too.  On the white chairs, sitting on the beach, laughing together and waiting for us all to swim back from the second sandbar.  

I walked around in the dusk light trying to find her memory stone under the brush, kicking leaves aside with my feet.  Panicky after a while, like in a bad dream where the light was quickly fading, I eventually found it had been moved years ago when the old piece of property was sold.  Now it's near the swing set, where we used to give each other underdogs and try to make it all the way around the pole.  When I found it, Weston walked over, set one of the little ceramic angels upright, and put his arms around me.  When I found it, I felt better. 

We ate Jack's pizza, drank beers from Central Waters Brewery, listened to Fleetwood Mac on the portable CD player, and read from the 1998 New Yorker Cartoon book.  He said that he realized why I like 70's-style decor so much.  I smiled.  He talked about how he appreciated Lake Michigan a little more than he ever has.  Here, you have to give the lake some attention.  Here, like on an ocean, you have to slow down and look at everything.  The dune grass, the wicker cups in the cabinets, the made bunkbeds.  Everything.