On the edge of the lake sits a house, half-built in depression, half in wealth. With the help of friends her dad raised it from the ground, with his bare hands, in hard times. But that was years ago and now it’s the neighborhood eyesore on such a sought after piece of land beside the water. Storm surges beat at her door as her husband locks cupboards and opens drawers, inappropriately. Just before it’s razed, I stand on the potholed driveway and can see right through the place, past closed drawers and open cupboards and out to the water. Two blocks away, in their own house, my mom is dizzy and my dad says he’s doing fine but he often says honey could you just run and get this for me. This afternoon they’ve got what they need and I’m on my way home to our apartment and from the ‘El’ tracks I see lakescapes and skyscrapers and flags flying at Wrigley Field and when I was fifteen my dad nearly died, the lake rose, and retreated, he came back and the lake the lake the lake in all seasons.
