When I lay in the hammock at Blue Lake, I feel like I’m on the edge of any memory in this place. Like I’m this close to being there, and if I just close my eyes long enough and at the right moment, there I’ll be, in 1988, picking mint in the side yard with my cousin, or 1992, floating in an inner tube to the raft while my parents watch from the porch. Both of my parents, because they are both still alive and able to exist in this place. I close my eyes again and I can hear my dad this time, telling me it’s dinner time. I close them harder and I can see him sitting on the couch thinking about how his memory is getting fuzzier and farther from reach. I squeeze them so tight and I see him on the front porch, tired, barely there, but still THERE. Still able to smile at me if I smile at him, able to hold a hand, able to eat a meal, able to fall asleep and wake up in the morning. Able to be there when I wake up, when I open my eyes. I don’t want to open my eyes.