the water was calm, we’d venture down the steps and stand on the concrete dock that the water would crash against on windy days. Sometimes it was too dangerous to go down.
They say that on the Summer Solstice, what our group refers to as “Midsummer”, water has magical healing properties. Every year, Ashley would lay brightly coloured blankets out onto the grass in a huge patchwork, and we’d sit there all day - eating and drinking and watching the swans. One year, the neighbours had a Solstice party and they set dozens of vibrant flower crowns afloat, which drafted past us like offerings. One year, on Midsummer’s Eve, we sat on the dock and dipped our feet into the water as a ritual. I’m not sure if we hoped for healing, if we were making wishes, or if we were setting intentions for the year, but the water was charged.
Being in such a pristinely natural place, with a clear view of the city skyline in the distance should have felt like a contradiction, but the extremes only amplified each other. Beneath the wonder of being together on the water, there was a quiet voice reminding me that this proximity to magic wouldn’t last forever, and that eventually Ashley would move, and her version of the Lakehouse would leave with her. But that only made it more sacred. I was nostalgic for the present.
That Midsummer was the only time I ever touched the water. It was refreshing and cool on a hot June day. It felt like a rebellion because I’d grown up thinking that Lake Ontario was unsafe for swimming. But here we were with our feet submerged, connecting us all to this one moment in space and time. The sun glittering on the water was impossibly gorgeous. Watching it set over the water was a privileged experience. But getting so close to it at night carried a different kind of weight.
-Rachel
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