Glorious

June 23rd

Lake Rossen was my favourite place; it was where I learned how to ride a bike, swim, fall in love with nature and suffer through countless sunburns.

But, most importantly, Lake Rossen is where my grandma is. Where I used to sit by her side and stargaze and dream for hours on end each summer. It's where my mom used to hold me tight and tell me tales about mermaids that lived in the lake and wolves that ran in the forest.

Lake Rossen is where my heart is.

The whole town was tucked away behind an endless forest and rocky mountains that spirit the sky into two. There were only two ways in, the most popular way is driving along the twisting road on the lake's edge, or (if you were lucky enough to have a boat) you could boat in from the other side of the lake that was filled with campgrounds and kayak rentals. I had only ever driven in; completely memorized by the way the water and trees seemed to blur together as we drove past.

All in all, Lake Rossen was your typical small summer town. It had no more than 30 year-round residents, all of whom I knew by name. Like Mrs. Cameron, who always had a yard sale every long weekend, and yet never managed to run out of junk to sell for 0.50 cents. Or the Johnstons', who seemed to have a new grandchild every time I stopped by to say hi, they had five kids who all got married young and their family just kept growing. Or even Mr. Lincoln whom you could always find down by the lake with his rod in the water. They were all my family.

But in the summer Lake Rosen became like a whole different place. As soon as June hit, all the usual empty cabins would fill up until September long weekend, and then there would be well over 100 people here.

However, despite how Lake Rossen would more than double in size during summer, it only had three stores. All of which had faded 'Welcome!' signs in a gravel parking lot that you first saw when driving into the town. The first was 'Got Milk?' which was the closest thing to a full-fledged grocery store we had. 'Got Milk?' had been owned and run by the same family for longer than I've even been alive, it had everything from sunscreen and fresh-cut firewood, to (of course) milk. And then there was a local fruit and veggie stand. It was only open from June to August when it was busiest, but I swear on my life it had the best blueberries I've ever tasted. It only accepted cash and was owned by the Hale's, a middle-aged couple who were as 'crunchy' as it gets. And finally, there was, more or less, a gas station with two pumps, although one of them seemed to be forever out of order.

And that was it. If you needed anything else, you'd have to make the hour's drive to the closest town.

But the people that came to Lake Rossen didn't care about how many stores there were, or if the gas pump was out of order. They all came to get away, to get lost in the sun and sand and all the beauty of the lake.

My grandma always told me that the water was magic, that it could cure anything. And for the longest time, I used to believe that. But that was before I found myself crammed into Reggie's truck, his awful rap music blaring, and the AC blowing warm air.

But right now, none of that mattered. All that mattered was that Lake Rossen was where my grandma was. My grandpa, her late husband, bought them their own lake-front cabin years ago as an anniversary gift, and they planned to finally settle down and retire there. My grandparents were high-school sweethearts, met at the 11th-grade homecoming dance, and the rest was history. But my grandpa passed away not long after buying the cabin, and everyone's heart broke. He was the foundation of our family. The dad to three girls and grandfather to even more. He was my grandma's everything. But Grandma still moved up here when she retired because, in her exact words, "I can't bear to be away from him any longer. His dream was this cabin, and now I finally get to live in his dreams again."