Inside, there is yellow squash. There are Freihofer’s cookies, better than Entenmann’s and always on top of the refrigerator.

Even when Nanny and Pop-Pop weren’t there, they were there. Nanny tried so hard to act as the homemaker, even though part of her charm was that she wasn’t one.

At night, we went to bed in the random spare room. As “home” as Lake George felt, night-time was always weird. As the weeping willow swayed around, as the lake waited for us kids and our tuna-fish sandwiches, because the beach sometimes means other places than the ocean.

Tomorrow, we’d be back. Before then, cars would climb over the bridge. Minnows would suicide their way to the shore. Crowds would be full of families, before I realized how precious the time was.

There were epic bike rides. There was water, and holding onto the slimy and slippery dock, should you be badass enough.

But once you made it to shore, your grandparents would be there. All would be well. Things would make sense. Nanny would know to pair tuna fish with Miracle Whip and celery.

It is so weird that it can’t happen again.