You remember the lake.

It was the summer you begged to be thrown one more time. Out where the water came up to his chest, you climbed into his hands, he counted to three, and for one second you were higher than the boats. You remember how cold it was coming down, and that you were already paddling back to ask again.

You don’t remember who packed the towels. Or who knew the turnoff after the gas station, where to stop for the blueberries, or the one spot along the harbor wall where the water ran warm.

Somebody did. That was the whole trick of it. Somebody carried all of it, quietly, so that the only thing you had to carry was a towel down to the water.

You’re the somebody now. You know the turnoffs. You keep the list. You remember the sunscreen and the permission slip and the dentist on Thursday.

This time, put some of it down and jump in with them. Somebody can carry it again.

And someday, they’ll remember the lake.