Skin still damp from swimming in the lake most of the day, we donned sweat shirts and blue jeans as evening faded to dusk. My brother, and sister, and I huddled as close to the campfire as we dared while attempting to roast marshmallows without getting our fingers too burnt or too sticky. Sweet tooth satisfied we sat in silence as the fire crackled, embers glowing white, the scent of wood-smoke crept into our clothes. An indigo sky touched with fireflies, crickets made music, and off in the distance, gentle waves brushed the lake’s shore.
The small rustic cottage where we stayed as guests of a dear friend sat at the top of the hill. And the view of the lake bathed in moonlight was nothing short of childishly romantic. Some nights we would sit for what seemed like hours, mesmerized by the peaceful view, wishing on the stars above that this place would never change.
Then I grew up and everything looked different. Developers moved in and scrapped away the natural landscape in favor of opulent glass houses for those who would seek to “own” the lake. As if that were possible. But while change is one of the few constants in life, I’ll always have the memories. Those they can’t take away from me.