My mother has been in end-stage kidney disease for quite some time, but she's been fighting it magnificently, through broken hip and recently, a fall causing a hairline fracture in her collarbone. We never quite know when our last visit will be, though the tenor of this last one shifted, and I am grateful I was able to bring my two small children to see her ago. My daughter's middle name is the same as my grandmother's first; I feel very close to her and am glad to honor her in this way.
Middle Sand Lake has been the subject of some of my poetry work, and I've often just sat on the bank, looking out. I remember as a kind, hefting my grandpa's old binoculars up to my face, hoping to catch sight of a deer on the other side. Going around in the pontoon boat, collecting shells. The big willow that eventually was cut down. Bringing my husband, our dog. Bringing our children.
The context of the lake has changed so much. But the constants are there: glazed lake water, the dock with wobbles, ducks and swans and cardinals. Each generation, a new interaction between land and lake and self.
