Like an enormous sheet of glass, the water glistens. Sleek and still and quiet. And dark. Birds chirrup, cicadas croon, a fish jumps. I sit on that ancient rocking chair, eyes focused on this serene lagoon and marvel about life and death and yesterday and today and tomorrow. There is no artificial blare to disturb this mesmerizing symphony of nature. No boats. No cars. No shrill children. Nothing to interrupt my rumination. That perfect tranquillity that is the lake at dawn.

60 years old and still ticking. It’s only been a with us for a portion of its life. And a portion of ours. But it has long since become a limb with which we are unwilling to part. An arm or a leg. Its walls are cracked and worn. Its foundation precarious. Like a child or a grandparent, it requires continuous upkeep and attention. A squirrel in the ceiling. A submerged floor. Mice. Every year brings a new dilemma. Every spring brings a renewed yearning.

For a pittance, we acquired it. Turquoise blue, white trim. Dry-rot, erosion, and water moccasins had taken their toll but our hands and our tenderness revived the modest structure. A little tile here, a little paint there, the house has become a sanctuary. A place for family and friends to coalesce and deny reality. We hardly notice the diminishing infrastructure anymore.

Daybreak, still, is our favorite time. One by one, we migrate to the screened-in porch facing the water. A cup of coffee. A smoke. Survey the damage from the night before. Cigarette butts, empty glass bottles, labels torn or missing. Dad’s Budweiser, his notorious ash spilling over the side where his negligence missed the mouth of the can. Ashtrays overflowing. Little in the way of conversation.

“Where’s the ash can?” Someone asks, interrupting the silence. An old paint bucket is produced. It is covered with contact paper so as to embellish itself. The leftover ashes are discarded.

The noise level rises with every new member. Banal conversation. Just a few hours ago, we were speculating on the significance of black holes or the evolution of man or great literary masterpieces. Now, it has diminished to a dog’s tricks or “Did you see that fish?” Amazing the perception and acumen we have with the help of a good bottle of whiskey.

The day brings festivities. Swimming, boating, frisbee-throwing, eating, intellectual conversation. The morning has just ended and we’ve already forgotten the tranquility which overcame us.

Once all of the clock’s arrows are pointing to the sky, it is, again, time to imbibe. Plenty of food and drink for everyone. Usually, too much. Laughter ensues. People everywhere, infinite prattle hatching concurrently. We all pile into the boat filled with bottles and dogs and conversation. Sun or rain, it doesn’t matter. We are together. We are at the lake house. We are smiling and living and relishing. This is what matters.

Later, the clock’s arrows are pointing to Hell, reminding us of how we’ll feel in the morning. Dad starts the grill. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. Chips. Cucumber salad. A summertime feast. The incessant gibbering. Picnic table on the porch. After a bowl of ice cream, darkness falls. Too many people converge around a tiny circular table in the kitchen for a game of poker.

Roll Your Own. Five and Dime. Baseball. Follow the Bitch. But mostly, just Roll Your Own. Dealer’s commentary. “Useless five, lots of red things, a no help ten, a King to go with that Ace.” Someone bets a nickel.

“A nickel? Too rich for my blood!” Dad proclaims as he slaps his cards on the table. “I hope someone is going to keep him honest.”

Someone does. A natural Straight Flush. He scoops his pot into a peanut can of loose change. On the lid is scrawled “Chris” in black.

“I’ve had enough.” Bodies start to stumble back out onto the porch. It’s first come, first served for the rocking chairs. We can barely see for the alcohol and the night. We find each other by the tips of cigarettes. A cooler full of beer. Newcastle and Heineken. Dad’s Bud. A bottle of Gentleman Jack somewhere. The conversation drifts to the Chaos Theory, amphibians to birds, and The Great Gatsby, once again. All there for the sole purpose of retrospection when dawn breaks.

As the bodies slowly drift to the corners of the house, the clock’s needles have long since passed the sky again. Quiet on the lake. We only hear the sounds of our sluggish voices and hypnotic cicadas.

“I love that sound. The sound of summer. The sound of the lake.” Someone says.

We retreat only a few hours before the dawn, making that silent pact to unite when the sun breaks so we can form our revolving memories all over again.