It’s lakefront property, but it’s not a Lake House.

Instead of what you might expect,

the luxurious and expensive appearance of ruggedness,

our cabin is authentically weathered.

Not from neglect, but from the very opposite:

decades of summer vacations and living room dance parties and taco nights,

nine people sharing two tiny bedrooms and hard-as-rock daybeds on a wraparound porch

and, miraculously, one bathroom for a fortnight.

Our cabin is childhood reimagined,

racing each other into water colder than an Arctic plunge,

playing Survivor and attempting to be the last one standing on the rickety raft,

walking to the bait shop for milk, a couple extra dollars pocketed for an ice cream treat,

spilling its stickiness down our greedy fingers in the sun’s shining rays on the way back.

Our cabin is relaxation and rejuvenation, finer than any spa,

talking and laughing on the dock,

where we can spend all day writing, reading, lounging, listening to the sounds of

the lap of water against the shore,

the whir of a boat motor priming for fishing,

the trill of a loon as she pops her head up and announces her presence,

the spotlight of the sun reflecting off her pewter feathers before she ducks back under,

only to reemerge a minute later for an encore.

Our cabin is a well-loved book,

complete with dog-eared pages and a taped-together spine and vivid memories of every chapter.