Childhood's Over

A few weeks ago, my parents, after much "thinking," decided to put our lake cabin up for sale. We expected to receive very few substantial bids, and in our minds, August 1st or so would be the closing date.

Well, they were wrong. The first people to see the cabin decided they wanted to purchase it and placed a good bid. My parents countered, and the buyers countered back with a competitive bid with the contingency that my family would close within weeks.

We're closing Friday.

Anyways, this weekend was our last weekend at the place, and as I left this morning, I couldn't help but feel like my childhood has abruptly drawn to a close. I haven't felt like a "child" in any true sense for years, but within the past week, I've spoken at commencement, received my diploma, said good-bye for the summer to two close friends who took on positions as camp councellors, and just this weekend, I said good-bye to a boat, two jet skiis, and a house that have marked my summers.

We'd bought our boat used when I was in elementary school, we'd bought the cabin when I was in middle school, and we'd had the jet skiis for just two years, but these items have cumulatively been the backdrop for so many of my childhood memories.

It was behind that boat that I became the adept tuber I am today. I learned how to kneeboard and water ski with that boat. I've jumped off the back of it hundreds of times. I've read many books while laying aboard it.

And the cabin . . . when you're at the cabin, you both wash the dishes and run around all day in our swimsuit. I say that meaning that no one is fully an adult there because you're part of a cooperative effort to make sure the place doesn't fall apart, but you're also apart of a collaboration to see who can get the darkest tan, tube the wildest, swim the hardest, etc.

And the two jet skiis . . . they've been my retreat during the past few summers when I've been all-too-anxious to leave the immediate vicinity of my family during our isolated stays at the lake. I've felt alive on them as I exceeded speeds of 50 miles an hour traveling across the lake. In short . . . we've bonded. ;)

Anyways, these things have marked my life, and now they're gone.

Within one week, I have received both the written and unwritten proof that life is in fact moving on. Here I am, standing at a crossroads, and while the moment is one I've anticipated for years, it nonetheless feels abrupt.