The dock was older.
The trees were taller.
But the water still glittered beneath the afternoon sun.
Mom came with us.
Her doctors had approved a supervised day trip.
She stood near the shoreline for a long time.
“This is where I saw you,” she whispered.
I looked toward the dock.
“I wish you’d called my name.”
“I almost did.”
Then she smiled sadly.
“Your father stopped me.”
I stiffened.
“He physically stopped you?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“He said one sentence.”
“What?”
Mom stared at the lake.
“He said, ‘If you call him, be certain you can stay.’”
I closed my eyes.
That sounded exactly like Dad.
Cruel when heard quickly.
Merciful when understood later.
We walked toward an old shed near the tree line.
Frank produced a key.
“Your dad asked me to give you this if you ever came here.”
Inside, the shed smelled of cedar and dust.
