With each look of the clock in summer’s early morning glow, I tick off another day until I return to the place that cultivates my authentic self. This anticipation, it keeps me sated among the dishes and dust, sweltering heat and heavy sighs of youth.
I long for first morning’s glance at the glassy lake glowing foggy mist at sunrise, to hear the faint lapping of water from a brood of ducklings swimming formation behind their mother. The smell of buttermilk pancakes and blueberries sputtering on the griddle mixed with the aromatic curls of French roast.
We welcome the twenty-two hours squeezed cozy in our mini-van, just to walk through the squeaky screen door of family roots on a lake in Canada. To the cottage nestled in pines, walls hanging with generations of laughter.
But . . . . .