It’s a place of ardor, tumultuous hours that the sun graces, and summer’s sweet kiss. It’s where the black-eyed Susans twirl and the birds bury their burdens. It’s the kind of place that hollers my name in the sobs of January and frantically begs for my return in June. 

It arrives in the climax of the peonies and the time of high spirits in their final stretches of agony. This place serenades me with nostalgia and eighties hits, binding my wrists in bittersweet memories and dog leashes. I always remember the glow of its facade in the face of May while waltzing down the brick path that it intertwines with. 

The wake of dawn paints portraits of the sky across the glass surface of the lake, and the sun greets the cottage when it finishes its morning calisthenics with the treetops. The frenzy of food preparation and drenched dogs interrupt my disorderly sleeping nest on the green carpet and invite me to an early date with a plate of pancakes and my favorite familiar faces. This place encourages me to acknowledge my subtle love of meager blessings and humbles my overwhelmed thoughts.

The days here bring humor and hysteria, the thrill of card games, and splashes of the boat’s wake.  I drift on oversized floats out onto the lake’s lap and relish in the tan poured onto my shoulders. The elderly docks extend their wooden planks to support me as I make my rounds back to shore. 

This place has whispered to me its secrets about the former spots and people that had once resided nearby and has shown me hidden passages within the forests. Just down the road lays a long, stick-woven trail that drains into a figure eight of soft, sandy tresses. Its sole purpose is for tomfoolery and escaping the busy nature I’m used to. The golf cart that lives here provides me with full throttle rides, feuds with random children—who, by happenstance, partake in golf cart rides around the lake as well—and near intervention from the local sheriff.

The five o’clock rays bring exhaustion and sunburn which can only be medicated by drumsticks—the ice cream kind, of course—and decompressing on the lounge chairs of the tied-up pontoon.  This place consoles me with intricate recipes and stories that one could never dream up. Prolonged conversations, rich history, and shared experiences create the fibers of this cottage’s being, running through its DNA.

This place is lulled by dusk but doesn’t give up quite so easily. I place myself on the gentle undulations of the paddle boat and circle the lake in my starstruck essence of the realization of beauty and freedom. It’s almost like being within a snow globe of sunsets, enlarged ponds, and the elegance of the upcoming solstice—this is the moment where I am whole, complete from the day behind me.

The subservient hours of darkness—lackluster, but still convivial in their own means—are topped off by cookies and large sofas. The not-so-calming voices of Rick and Morty warn me to go to sleep—despite my deep opposition to the thought of slumber—but their shrillness always pushes me to make that healthy choice my body craves after a lengthy stretch of activity. The nights here are just salutations to the events of the sunlit hours and tie everything up in a well-deserved bow.

This place coddled my childhood and earliest memories and continues to accommodate for my fresh ones. It’s a place where I become aware of myself and the minuscule charms of spring and summer. It’s where every soul can toil in bliss of their own and where time seems to depend on the season. 

This is the place where the black-eyed Susans twirl and where the birds bury their burdens. This place is where I am sound.