I visit her in the dinner hour, to say goodbye. She swings wide her door and I run across the threshold, an eager guest in the home of a dear friend. I can feel in the air and in the water how the summer pulls away, to make room for autumn, this bittersweet dance. I swim and savor her cool kiss on my cheeks once more this year. Once more.
In these waters, I feel alive.
A gull circles over the water, near the stone steps, and a little girl watches from below holding her mama's hand. She bubbles curiosity and innocence and joy and for a moment, I imagine I am her and my heart tugs back in memory.
I sit on a wooden bench, steps away from the lake, book in hand, and breathe summer's long, last breath. The sun has nearly slipped behind the trees and my damp skin tingles at the touch of evening air, but I am not yet cold.
I pack my backpack with wet towel one more time, tucking bright pink swim cap in its fold. I walk with my bicycle up the grassy hill, turn back and pause.
Goodbye, friend. Thank you.
It will be nine months, at least, until I swim with her again. But I will say hello from a distance and visit her shores and sit to hear her songs, the songs that remind me of life.
For through her, I hear my Savior call.
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Linking with Lisa-Jo for another Five-minute Friday. The prompt this week is "She," and though mine is an unconventional 'she', it's a she that is dear to me, nonetheless.