That Summer On the Lake

Finally, as afternoon sun splayed through the picture window onto wood floor and last pieces of furniture, I packed that summer on the lake into a box, mitering indigo corners between squares of bubble wrap, ripples appliqued with lilac jacaranda blooms blown on the water. Kids would leave for college and grandparents died, but that year bees hovered in marigolds and violet alyssum. The moon's marshmallow singed umber, impaled on a hanger over golden flames. Dawn's opalescence would flicker in pale aquamarine, receding shadows uncovering beads of cerulean icing and pink lemonade shimmering on shamrock and juniper. Tiers of skinned knees and runny noses now framed by cardboard and plastic were stacked like red velvet cake atop a knotty pine picnic table as terns called in the distance, then sealed with oak and concrete of our final day as we cannon-balled off dock's end like it was the last thing we'd ever do.