Guitar Cases and Dirty Clothes

WISDOM DISCOVERED

I remember the lake. The lake in my first neighborhood. It was a small lake, but at the age of nine a small lake appears to be a big lake. I would ride my bike to the lake like I was on an adventure, like I was out on my own, a quest for something greater than myself, like something from The Goonies.

I remember the autumn days of sitting on the wooden swing by the lake, looking at the trees shedding their leaves for the coming winter and thinking, as much as a nine year old thinks introspectively, about how good or bad life was. The silence speaking so clearly.

I remember the way the lake curved, a mystery as to where it led, unless you explored the uncharted waters by canoe or kayak. Where the water led I never knew.

I remember scraped knees from colliding with the gravel path that led to that wise old water. The brazen wounds that screamed pain out of the thin cold air, but never stopped me from visiting.

I remember seeing the lake through the bare trees in the winter as we drove up to the entrance of the neighborhood. The water always beckoned me to come and spend time with it.

I remember how the streets of the neighborhood were united as one by a mere reservoir. How life was lived in the presence of others. Comforting.

I remember the joy, pain, and change that sprang out of that water and into my early life.

But most of all I remember leaving the lake behind.