In The Good Old Summertime

This evening, Brian slips on a retro-looking stripe of silver and cherry syrup red. Nostalgia beckons me back to my grandparents' cabin on a reservoir where we used to spend summer weekends when I was young. We'd change into our swimsuits, grab towels, and skip down the hill to the water, diving from the pier into the still coolness. When we finally emerged hours later, we climbed back up the slope to a waiting aluminum pitcher, frosty from the fridge and rattling full of ice cubes. From its welcome depths my mother would pour black cherry Kool Aid into colorful metal tumblers that would get so cold our hands would numb and burn.