My wife and I sought sanctuary by the lake, our
two sons in tow. The four-hour car trip was nonstop

requests for candy, cookies, sodas laced
with anticipation, halted mid-sentence

by the lake’s incantation: the first glimpse
of cool, limpid waters and a sweeping lawn of conifers.

We sailed among lake islands, swam alongside fish,
dove for seashells among undulating

stems of pondweed. One son claimed Lake George
looked just like last year, emboldened

as he sailed a Sunfish, while the younger insisted
it was different every day. This was before we returned

with his ashes, his request for them to rest
in a bright spot of his youth. A wild-cat

snow shower punctuated that day in unexpected
white-out. My clarinet sang the slow movement

of Mozart’s concerto in elegy, sound drifting
over a basin carved by a glacier that melted into tears.

David Stern is new to the community of writers after decades working as a physician scientist and healthcare administrator. He has recently placed pieces in Write Launch, Windmill, Free Spirit Publishing, 1922 Revival/VOICES, Streetlight Magazine, the Awakenings Review, Manifest Station, Qu Literary Magazine, San Antonio Review, and others. Dave grew up sailing on Long Island and currently lives in Asheville, N.C.