Casa del Lago

It was Casablanca. The first movie we ever watched at the lake house. We also, one time, watched the Lake House, and I imagined I was Keanu Reeves writing you letters across time. I even wrote some of them, and left them in obvious places for you to find: in the shower, taped to the hose in the garden, sticking out of a crack in the dock. You found most of them. Some you never did.

Some I left overnight only to find shriveled and torn in the wake of a rainstorm. When it rained, we spent hours watching movies. All movies. Gangster movies, romance movies, classic movies, and every new release we got out hands on. Your favorite was Casablanca. The first time we watched it I admit I stayed focused on you. You mouthed every word; eventually I learned them all too.

You used to call me “Rick my love”, just before you kissed me. And just before you left the last time you leaned in and whispered softly “Though time may pass, we will always have the lake house.” It was cliché, cheesy; I didn’t care.

Not a day goes by I don’t still think about it. Falling asleep on the raft, my hand dipped into the nectar sweet waters, and coming in hours later red as a tomato. Lounging on the bank, watching the lake breathe long rhythmic breaths. Resting my head on your chest as you tried to mimic the flow of the water with your own. Sitting on the dock, legs dangling, reciting Italian love poems as we watched the salmon sun end its long days leap out of the lake and come to rest under deep cerulean waters.

Each morning, still, my heart flutters as I imagine I’m waking up to you, sun flooding the room, and expanse of crystal waters just outside our door. I left a note the last time I was there. I imagine years from now you’ll read it:

Though time may pass, you’ll always have me.