Eighty-Five

It is eighty-five degrees in April.

At my in-laws’ lake house it feels like summer. We shed our sweaters and boots, trading them out for sandals and flip flops, tank tops and shorts. 

There are no boats or wind and the water is like glass. The brown reflection of the bluff bleeds into the blue of the water. We have dinner on the lakeshore. My husband makes a small campfire, one within the burn limit, and we eat hot dogs and chips on paper birthday plates. My children take turns on the wooden swing that hangs from the willow tree. 

It is hot, the stillness punctuated by the mournful cry of a loon.

I wear shorts for the first time while running, sweat soaking through my shirt. It feels like summer but the hills look like early spring, brown and confusing and I wonder if this is what things will be like years from now when it is hotter and drier.

We sleep with the windows open and fans on.

One day, my husband and I visit the grounds of a church at the end of the bluff. The forsythia are in bloom, golden flowers spilling over the nearby stone wall. We walk the grounds, spider webs easier to spot among the bare trees. The lake down below is smooth, its color shifting with the clouds overhead.

There is only one small storm, a dark cloud that hovers over the bluff. There are a few streaks of lightning, a few rumbles of thunder, a few drops of rain, and then it is over. There are reports of wildfires from around the state.

Before we leave, I notice that the brown is softening, new leaves emerging—bright green and tender. We drive home with the air conditioning on and when we pull into the driveway, the daffodils that were only green leaves a few days ago have blown open. I try to capture their beauty, but many of the flowers are already fading in the heat. That night we go on a family walk and clouds move in from the east, turning the sky a smoky purple mixed with pink. I know that soon there will be rain and it will feel like spring again, but for now it is eighty-five degrees in April.