I have been recovering from our vacation.
Each July, family and friends rent cabins on a lake for a week of skiing, tubing, fishing. Our cabin has a wall of windows facing the lake. The screen door exits to cement steps that face my parents’ cabin which features sliding glass doors and a deck.
And each year, all the preparations and packing and to-do lists and, will we ever, ever, ever get theres? simmer down when I wake up to the lake outside my window and peek out the screen door to see my parents sitting on their deck. I make coffee and toast. I go sit with them. Briefly. Mommy duties–applying sunscreen, frying bacon, changing diapers–call me away from the deck. And I wish mornings would be longer than they are, so I could return to sit with the day’s potential and the glassy lake in my peripheral and visit more with Mom and Dad.
I have six mornings of peeking out my window. Then this vacation ends with a Saturday checkout and a van packed again to its brim. It ends with summer enough to play and enjoy. But instead, when we return home, I go to the window and see the zinnas in bloom and our burned up lawn and miss the water. I miss the sight of my parents, the ease of walking across the grass to say good morning. I miss the quiet of the lake before skiers glide by in the wake of the boat, and floating toys and beach towels and swimmers fill the beach.