I miss it. Haven’t been since the last time I was there with you. It used to be our place. You, me, Tuck…him. I don’t even know what’s happened there over the years. For all I know the cabins are falling apart and the once beautiful lake has turned into a swamp. But I want to see it again.
I need to feel the silence. I think I need to sit on the dock and see how it feels knowing no one is going to cannonball in next to me. Not in a dramatic way. Well, not that dramatic. There will be tears. You know there will be. But I want to walk the path where we used to race barefoot and know that even if you’re not there, a part of you always will be. Just like those trees have held in a part of me, too.
The best parts of you are there. The laughter, the chaos, the summer heat in your smile. They’re embedded in the soil and forever held in every ripple of the water.
And maybe I need to feel the fear. Need to sit in the silence surrounded by memory and feel it all. I need to prove to myself that I’m stronger now. That I can feel however I need to feel without trying to out drive it. I’m done pretending I’m not scared.
I’m terrified. Of what I feel, of the reality waiting for me back home. I’m scared to face the state of my relationships, scared to not. I’m scared that I’ll undo all this work I’ve done to hold myself together.
But just like grief and peace can live side by side… so can fear and hope.
I’m hopeful. Hopeful that home won’t break me the way it once did. Maybe it will help me remember more than just the ending. Maybe I’ll feel the ghost of your arms around me instead of the pulsating ache of you not being there. Maybe the trees that watched us grow will send me the echoes of your laugh on the wind.
Maybe home will feel like home again.
I’ve been homesick since the day you left me.
So, I’m going back. But first, the lake. Maybe I’ll stay a night. Maybe a few. Who knows? I’ll sit by the water. Run through the woods. Soak in whatever is left.
If you’re outthere…send me a sign. <3
The gravel of the driveway crunches under the van tires as I creep forward. It’s loud in the otherwise quiet morning. I ease off the gas even more as the trees thin, parting for the clearing. The heart of our property that holds,still,two cabins and a lake that has the morning sun dancing on its surface. I blink quickly, throwing the van in park with shaking hands.
It’s okay.
The music of mountain silence hits me when I step out of the van and close the door behind me. I rest my forehead on the sun-warmed, white metal that’s held me for the last two years as I’ve worked to pull myself together.
Deep breath.
Another.
It’s okay.
The leaves on the trees rustle and wave, the space seemingly coming alive when I turn to take it all in, like it’s been holding its breath…waiting for me.
It looks the same.
It’s completely different.
Funny how things tend to look different when you’re older. The cabins and shed are holding strong. Weathered, sure. The pea green door that we painted one summer has faded. The steps sag in some places, and ivy curls up the side of the big cabin like fingers that have tried pulling it back into the earth. But they’re here.
The lake glitters. Wide and blue and just as alive as ever. It smells exactly like I remember, too, like damp wood and sun-warmed grass.
When I was ten, this place felt huge. This massive green haven that held endless opportunities. The cabins look smaller now. Maybe not as magical as it had once felt, but what magic left there is a heavy layer of comfort in its place.
My heart is in my throat.
I half expect to hear someone shout my name. Brett’s laugh. Bowen’s voice. The sound of Tucker picking on me.
I suck in a breath.
It’s okay.
Each step forward is a choice. One I have to force myself into making, because honestly? Iwantto climb back into the van where it’s safe. Safe and familiar to the me I am now.
Now I feel like the stillness around me is the place I used to love studying me curiously. Knowing I’m not the same little boy running barefoot through the grass anymore, and it’s waiting to see who I am now.
I suck in another ragged breath when the wind blows, ruffling my hair that I should have had cut ages ago. I don’t know how long I stand there. It could be minutes. Could be hours. The cabins. The trees. The dock, a little more crooked than it used to be. The old tire swing still hangs from the tree near the back of the property, frayed rope pulling it lazily in the breeze.
