Maine

Old board games are stacked atop a barrel in the corner. A brown leather sofa dozes beside them. It’s worn from decades of cabin dwelling, imprinted with memories of family game nights and mornings spent sipping on coffee.

Outside of the cedar-framed windows, rain spills from an ashen sky. It tap dances on the cabin roof and falls in teardrops from slippery fir tree needles. A heavy fog veils Sebago Lake, billowing over the balmy summer water.

The screen door creaks as I swing it open. My sister reads her book at the far end of the covered balcony. My mom plays Wordle at her side. The pendulous rhythm of their rocking chairs harmonizes with the rain. Cicadas hum in the background. It’s a symphony of human silence.

Later, we’ll attend a lakefront clambake. Man-made noise will return. The song of chatter, of glasses clinking and guitars strumming, of burgers sizzling and buttery lobster shells cracking.

For now, I sit with my mom and sister, crossword puzzle in my lap, and rock back and forth in my chair.