I’m headed home now from a week at my parents’ house on the lake. I hadn’t been there in a few years.

First covid happened and then we had other priorities for a couple years. It was hard to find the time to go South.

While I was there I had a few days without any agenda where I mostly sat on the deck and watched the water in the lake change over the course of the day.

Years ago my mom used to try to convince me that folks in Alabama enjoyed fall color, though I’d always argued certainly not the color we have in Michigan.

I was down there, this year, at the perfect fall time, with yellow, green and red popping under warm southern sun.

The leaves across the way reflected in the lake as I sat on the dock, memories of years past flitting through my mind.

I wished my parents were with me at the lake house. I wished my mom was making potato salad. I wished my dad was telling stories.

I spent the week surrounded by memories of times when we were all together. It was both a sad and a happy week.

Mostly a nostalgic week.

Which, I suppose, was the purpose of my trip.