Every year we travel up there. We drive hours, we board a plane, we cross a continent, we drive a few more hours. We sometimes spot moose when we get close.
The temperature drops a good twenty degrees, maybe thirty. There's a lake, a fresh, clear sky, a raven that doesn't stop crowing, chipmunks and red squirrels scurrying quickly across the yard. There's family.
This year, there was a wedding. There were white-haired grandparents and stylish cousins. There was a fiddle, singing aunts, a reverend uncle. We ate at a long table on the porch. There were so many flowers.
We ate and drank. The mosquitos came out. It got dark. People lingered on. We drank beer brewed by the bride and groom. We saw the stars. We fell asleep.
As always, we left too soon. We are already missing it.