My mom wears a swimsuit beneath a pair of white shorts and a tube top. We walk a wide trail until it opens onto the lake, which is large; thick algae floats out fifteen feet from its muddy shore. I count five frogs. There’s a floating log where three turtles are perched, their long, extended necks soaking up the sun. The beach is a five-minute walk away, the place to rent boats and set them ashore another ten minutes beyond that. I skip rocks across the water while we walk. The rowboats have all been rented, and all that’s left is a pedal boat, which we rent for the next three hours. It’s blue and white, two seats for the pedalers, two seats for riders. There’ll be no riders except for us. My mother sets a bag of snacks and drinks in the built-in cooler and then we’re off.

It takes a half hour to reach the lake’s center and I can tell my mother’s legs are tired once we’re there. Nonetheless, we strip to our swimwear and dive in headfirst. We’re not sure if swimming is even permitted but neither of us cares. The water is cold. We swim awhile before we rest beside one another with our arms perched over the side of the boat. She pushes me off and I swim below and pull her under by her ankles.

We laugh the entire time.

When we climb back aboard we eat the sandwiches she has made, explore other areas of the lake, and return the boat when the third hour is up. We’re both exhausted. We walk to the beach and my mother falls asleep on her towel. I swim for a while, play Frisbee and volleyball with a few other kids and their fathers, then return. She’s still asleep, on her stomach, and after a while I fall asleep beside her.

3

On Saturday, our fourth day in the campground, I go for a hike along the winding trails while my mother takes a nap, which is how she’s spent a good majority of the trip. When she isn’t sleeping she walks aimlessly around the site, picking up sticks or kicking stones like a bored child. For the most part she’s quiet, and when she catches me watching her, she merely smiles politely.