The sky is pink again
now that it’s dusk
and the air from the lake blowing ashore
sends pricks of shivers across my back.
My hair dripping wet from a day of swimming
begs for warmth
and Grandma holds out a towel-hug
to dry the chills.
As I climb off the dock and towards the cabin
where I know my gray sweats are waiting
with my favorite sweatshirt
three sizes too big and advertising
my dad’s alma mater
and, if I’m lucky, the wool socks warmed
by Grandpa’s mid-summer fire
will still smell of smoky oak.
Even though it was 85 out before,
it’s 60 now
and the owls are beginning to hoot their goodnights
and I know what’s waiting for me in the kitchen.
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