The air is warm and still, but not heavy.
My grandkids swim in the little lake with their siblings.
Wisconsin Summer.
Music at the park.
Classic rock played by a local busker filling the air, mingling with the scents of burgers and hotdogs on the grill.
Boats float on the spring-fed lake, fishing lines being cast.
Jet skis zoom and skid across the flat water.
So many neighbors around us;
A father and daughter playing catch,
A mother and daughter dancing the Macarena to a song that is definitely not the Macarena,
Little boys fishing off the concrete pier,
Two very-tanned bodies soaking up the last of the day’s rays.
And me, I’m using the last of the daylight to read more of Emma’s journal entries, laughing out loud to myself until my kids or grandkids ask what’s so funny.
Breathe it in, that lake air.
Not the big lake, just this little one that is randomly here.
It’s ours.
