Car filled to the brim.
Seven people.
Bags on laps and under legs.
From Lexington to Falmouth, an hour and a half.
The landmark Bourne Bridge—twenty minutes left.
The shingled home.
Sprinkled with the dust and must of a long winter.
The opening of windows and doors.
A tangy, salt-filled breeze.
A glassy lake quickly shattered.
Snorkeling, kayaking, and swimming.
Birds chirping, dogs barking, children squealing.
A short sprint to the beach.
Wearing only a damp bathing suit.
Beach blankets and buckets in hand.
Swimming and splashing.
A setting sun.
Scurrying home barefoot.
Downy smelling towels draped over shoulders like superhero capes.
Quick outdoor showers.
Shucking corn by the dozen.
The aroma of hamburgers and hotdogs sizzling on the grill.
Popsicles of all flavors dripping down chins and hands.
Air filled with bug spray.
Sardines, flashlight tag, manhunt, and kick the can in the nearby cemetery.
A place for the dead, alive with all the neighborhood children.
The clear night sky; a full moon bright above the lake.
Plane overhead, or perhaps a shooting star.
Parents melodiously calling children home.
A crowded bedroom.
No air-conditioning.
Rustling beds, a rotating fan, and snoring--the night-time lullaby.