Instructions on how to Summer at the cabin

Go north.
Keep going north.
Go north until the pines flank the hillsides with burn scars,
past where the river tumbles over granite, cold as a salt lick,
and where you once slept in the back of your car
with a man you don’t speak to anymore.
Go north until you reach the lake that reminds you,
of being seventeen.

Once you arrive,
do not properly unpack any of your clothes for the entire summer.
leave them in piles across the floor
as if you just got home from a party.

Cook bacon. Think about your mother every time, and how when she was young she would cook it just for the smell, and then feed it to the dog.
Drink black coffee from the mug with two quail on it, that came with the cabin when you bought it, years ago, filled with to the edges someone else's life.
Do not mention wildfires as if it might invoke the spirit too early in the season.
But do tell new visitors about the spirit that came with the house and how he once saved your son from falling through the hole that leads to the basement.

Let the dishes pile in the sink.
Tell the dog to quit barking.
Skip showers and swim instead.
Finally finish a book.
Stay on the boat until the shoreline blurs and your thighs burn in the July sun.
Watch the bats swoop low once the sun goes down.
Listen as a storm rolls in and moves the trees like rushing water.

Take your son for a walk after he eats breakfast,
syrup dripping from his chin,
his hair unwashed and tangled and smelling of bonfire,
eyes bright like sun glitter.
Collect sticks to build a fairy house,
collect rocks for the path and moss for the roof,
collect anything he deems worthy in a canvas bag
that is so heavy by the time you get home your shoulder aches.

Go down to the lake like a holy pilgrimage,
answer all of his questions as best you can,
skip rocks by the water, touch your tongue to a smooth one,
taste the metallic cold earth.
Dig a hole.
Walk home.
Watch a movie in the middle of the day with the air conditioning up too high and banana bread baking in the oven.

When you can, go for a swim alone, go farther than the floating dock where
seaweed tangles around your ankles and perch hide.
When you go under, listen for secrets, but hear nothing.

Let your belly grow
talk to the baby out loud
wear the Levis until the top button gives out.
Cut wildflowers and put them in a pint glass on the counter:
Indian paint brush and Lupine and a white one you cannot name.

Let your son drink from the hose,
let him have a soda,
let him stay up very very late,
let him
let him
Let summer lull you into weeks of in between
with days that leak and linger into one another
until you cannot tell the difference anymore
until, to your surprise, it is already
almost
over.