Dear Rigby

the road turns slow past the fields

stone crackles under the tires like a voice i forgot i missed

i lean forward in my seat holding my breath

because there you are

just past the trees

sunlight caught in your windows

screen door open like you knew i was coming
 
you smell like old wood and lake water

like dinners cooked barefoot

and towels left out to dry in the sun

my friends run out laughing already halfway to the dock

dogs skidding behind them

splashing like the water belongs to them too
 
nights fall thick and warm

we eat with our knees tucked up

passing plates across each other

sweet corn buttery and hot

chips and something grilled and music playing from a speaker

half broken but still louder than the dark
 
we stay up late

long past when we should

heads tilted back watching stars

telling stories that stretch the truth just enough

someone jumps in the lake

someone else tries to paddle out past the edge of the light
 
my dad tries to stand and laugh on the paddleboard

arms out wide like a magician

then crashes in slow motion

splash and yelling and all of us howling

the lake swallowing him whole for just a second

before he comes up grinning
 
you hold us through it

your floors creak like they remember every summer

your screens breathe in the crickets

your roof listens without asking
 
the dogs leap from the dock chasing nothing but air

we float out on boards where the lake forgets to ripple

everything slows

even our voices

and you hold it all

like you always have

like you always will