Skin still damp from swimming in the lake most of the day, we donned sweat shirts and blue jeans as evening faded to dusk. My brother, and sister, and I huddled as close to the fire pit as we dared attempting to roast marshmallows without getting our fingers too burnt or too sticky. Sweet tooth satisfied we sat in silence as the fire crackled, embers glowing white. The flames cast their hypnotic spell, and the scent of wood-smoke crept into our clothes like a sacred lullaby.
Crickets chirped their evening song. Gentle waves lapped against the lake's shore. The small rustic cottage where we stayed as guests of a dear friend sat at the top of the hill. And the view of the lake bathed in moonlight was nothing short of childishly romantic. Some nights we would sit for what seemed like hours, mesmerized by the peaceful view, wishing on the stars above that this little spot on the hill would never change.
Inevitably change would come, but we would always hold dear the memories of that place where time stood still and perfect peace surrounded us so completely.
