Still

Lifejackets on hangers. Bug spray on the work bench in the garage, next to a part to a sailboat and a wrench and the project that never was finished. Salt and pepper shakers askew on the porch coffee table. Paddle boards clinging to racks on the sidewall of the garage, likely too bulky to allow for the paddle boards and a car to get along in that small space. A refrigerator with some pop, four beers, two half used jars of ketchup. And that’s just the garage fridge. A porch with furniture huddled together in the middle covered late last fall quickly, and before that first snow. Beds made, others messy. The cleaning person’s fault, no doubt. A magazine left open on the arm chair nearest the fireplace. Three books stacked neatly on the nightstand without a crease in any of the bindings. Two invoices on the entry table. One from Gordy’s another from Gage, the lack of harmony hidden inside the envelopes. Boat keys on the hooks by the door. A half drawn picture of the shoreline, maybe drawn by a child or maybe by an adult, it’s too hard to tell. The house, the gear, the summer noises and sights and movement, frozen in place, or maybe in time. Soon it’ll be screened doors and wet feet and backyard fires, but for now, it’s still.