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A toy car, sun scorching off its tin-can roof
Methodically inching its way to freedom, perhaps. Or probably Heaven.
Inside flimsy, air-conditioned doors, excitement rages; a bubble expanding, doubling, as Heaven, sweating on haunches, approaches
Maybe your Aunt Verna should have bought that plastic curio, "Life Stops Here", bearing the much less than extravagant pseudonym, "the Lake".
And then a great mass- a jumbled assortment- of proud, yet not quite regal, mountains, flanked by a vast stretch of bleu, glorious bleu.
And our bubble bursts.
Miscreants, mischievous villans of loud, or just plain "kids" (whichever you prefer)
Butts-out-of-seats and as rowdy and riotous as an excited mob, we sing and laugh as we are enveloped, swallowed whole, into the best five days of the year.
One-hundred and twelve, sun-kissed and fried faces
But we dance into the night, and the outside world is gone
Five days of time-travel, or maybe I should say time-freeze; hours slip through our fingers like grains of diluted sand
And somehow the world still turns round
While we go to Heaven and back.
"Who is buying today?" we chatter to each other, for ice cream is the only way to beat the heat.
Counting out softly crumpled dollar bills and reluctantly handed over change,
Our foursome settles onto plastic chairs with flies and discarded Tecate cans, along with the reminisce of a breakfast that was quickly stuffed down, the sooner we could get to the water.
A deep rumbling seeps from the back of the boat
And Derek drives.
Wind whipping our cheeks into crusted brown
While chapstick is incessantly pressed into valleys of fiery red lips
And we all embrace one another in a shared love when the grapevine whispers it is time for the boat again
Somehow we grew up
Us and our silly phrases and immodest bikinis and that let-loose sort of dancing we all enjoy
As we balance and the boat is fast and sticky lemonade trickles down our arms while pop tunes drown out our voices
This is The Lake