Still

This may be an introduction to a memoir piece I an writing about growing up.

Still

The cottage is still the same
         (i)doors wide open
                   please come in,
                             laugh,
                                       play,
                                                 slow down with our family{/i}
                                                           place it was when I was a child.

The trees still filter
         cool green sunlight
         as it floats down
                   through towering oaks to the wooden swing.
The swing still seats
         exactly two adults
         or two grown-ups and a loved child
                   or even four small leg-kicking, stretch-to-bounce-your-toes-off-the-ground kids.
The lake still sleeps
         in an inky black dream at night
         and plays with the sky during the day,
                   throwing bright flecks of stinging sunlight to the shore.
The dock still stretches
         a single crooked finger out into the lake
         to dip into the clear water and touch the magical world of darting fish and
                   slimy weeds, ridges in the sand and snails in their tiny shells.
The raft still floats
         on the edge of the deep water
         where children feel called, yet challenged
                   to swim out, climb up, and shout to the shore from their youthful island.

The cottage is still…