By the time we meet the sun is reaching towards the lake, making the air hazy and golden. We walk the break wall, our toes bending against the sharp edges of the grey rocks, slapping mosquitoes from our legs and pulling them through the strands of our hair. Left on the flat rocks near the beach are two pairs of Birkenstocks and a carton of fresh, warm strawberries, blood red like the sky. Eventually the bugs overtake us and we retreat to the rough sandpaper of the roadside, shoes in one hand and strawberries in the other.
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The stars rush by as I swing. Facing the opposite way I always did, on my childhood playground. I feel like I’m falling into the Milky Way. Then I’m sitting on the damp seat of the jungle gym, trying to relearn childhood climbing tricks. Feeling out of place, realizing that I am no longer the person who climbed these things. Thinking about how different it will be.
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We take a long walk through the golf course, feet slick with water from the sprinkler, sliding along the shorn grass of the green. The roar of the dam is deafening as we walk across the bridge and through the Falling Waters Lodge. We run as we try to scare each other, pretending we see the Merc’s resident raccoon. Now we’re lying on the cool sand of Van’s Beach. And there is only this moment, no other.