She thought it would be different from
the usual stops on a vacation map,
something quieter than a beach
or the bright hum of a city skyline.
Instead, she pictured herself walking
down some narrow street, a book under
her arm, perhaps a novel she’d
pretend to read but never finish.
There would be lectures, of course,
sermons disguised as conversations,
as if every word here was spoken
with a slight echo, bouncing off lake air.
She imagined the evenings slower,
as though even the trees were practicing
mindfulness, the way they bent down
to listen to the wind, then straightened again.
Maybe she would take up pottery
or join some class on the ethics
of leisure, where everyone would nod
while someone said leisure is never idle.
It would be nothing like her office,
nothing like the traffic she would avoid,
just a place where time felt like a guest
you were happy to see but never in a rush.
She would wake up earlier here, sipping
coffee slowly by the dock, watching birds
glide across the water, each one taking
its time as if it had nowhere else to be.
And when she left, she would carry
this stillness with her, as though it could
fit into the trunk of her car, waiting
to be unpacked in the chaos of home.