And so I am here. Everything smells the same. I look through every drawer and cupboard, finding the same pink plastic plates, chipped bowls and empty buckets for picking huckleberries. Some things have changed, but not much. It seems sad that this place stands empty for most of the year. I fall asleep in this large, empty, cabin with many beds that should be filled with friends and family, but, other than my dog, I am the only one sleeping here. It is lonely, but familiar. I sleep in the same room I always slept in with my husband. The one closest to the window. The bed where once, he woke me in the middle of the night to show me how the moon shimmered on the water, and made love to me. This place, this room, this bed, this place…
I wake early on the first day, make my coffee as usual, go out to the porch that overlooks the lake and sit. The first of the die-hard skiers are out because the water is still smooth and the window for the water is short. My happiest memories are here on this lake. Not the other place… the place I feel obligated to fight for; but, this lake, these mountains, this place…is in my soul. I say a prayer of gratitude, because finally, I am at a place in my heart, where I can pray again.
I am heading across the lake today to visit one of my oldest, dearest friends. Our plans are to spend the day on the beach, BBQ and head back across the lake for a drink at an old, historic bar on the lake. We did all of that, and that is when I see "Cort"…. again.
Cort and I go back 34 years. He was my first big crush. One of the first boys I ever kissed. His hair is gray now, his face more lined that I remember, but there he was…the boy I sat across from in typing class. Over thirty years have passed, but those school girl crush feelings returned in a nanosecond. I tried to be cool, but my heart was beating rapidly in my chest and I could feel my face flush, as I smiled and said, “Hey Cort, how are you?”
Over the course of thirty some years, I only recently have run into him again in the last five, once in our hometown, and once here in this place, two years ago. I knew he still worked here, as I had just had dinner with his sister two nights ago and she told me. “Yes, he still works the bar there.” This was no “coincidence,” I wanted to run into him, I planned it, because I knew I would.
He was charming as always, cute as hell, taller than I remembered, but with those same big brown eyes and huge smile. He knows everyone in the bar and while my friend and I roll into a dice game with people at the bar, Cort and I begin a friendly, flirty, banter. And this place, this lake, is where I have found the next love in my life.
Before you either sigh deeply, or throw up, there is more to this story. The real story isn’t about falling in love with someone I knew thirty odd years ago, the real story is about Cort. The real story is what I learned about myself. The real story is what I discovered. I have written about my sadness, my guilt in leaving, my grief, and my pain. The real story was a gift from God; a higher being, the Universe, whatever we want to call it, this was a gift. There are no accidents, but only collisions of destiny.
After a fun evening, my friend and I boat back across the lake and head to bed. The next day after spending the morning drinking coffee, looking for huckleberries and waterskiing, she drops me at my car. Back to the land of cell towers and service. I turn on my phone to find a friend request on Facebook from Cort and a voicemail asking when we can get together again. I am happy.
I return his call and we make arrangements to see each other again in a few days. He requests a haircut from me. He says, of course, he will pay me. I think I was asked out on a date, but I’m not completely sure. Maybe I am just cutting his hair. But, if nothing else, I am seeing him again and I will be cutting his hair…for free. I am happy.
The next few days are filled with anticipation and imaginary conversations in my head I will have with Cort. I am enjoying my time at this place and have met the neighbor next door, but I am counting the hours until Friday. I will close this story for now, and write again tonight, as this story is bursting inside to be written, but I am only here for a few days longer, and I need to sit on the porch, drink my coffee and watch the skiers. This sadly, is probably the last time I will be in this place, and I need to enjoy every moment I have left. The story of Cort is not over and it never will be. Hang on…we’ll be right back…
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