woke before sunrise.
The cottage was cold enough that I put on Daniel’s gray sweater.
I made coffee and carried it outside.
The lake was nearly still.
No speedboats.
No children yelling from docks.
No music from rentals.
Just water.
Silver first.
Then blue.
Then gold.
I sat in Daniel’s chair.
For thirty-one years, I had believed the cottage held my memories because Daniel and I had built them there.
That morning, I understood something else.
The cottage did not hold my life.
I did.
The building was wood.
Nails.
