Wilson Lake wasn't known for having the deepest water, nor the biggest fish. What it did have was a tiny cabin with a big bay window that perfectly framed the lake at sunset. Its rickety dock was just big enough to hold a couple of folding chairs and a cooler filled with lunch meat sandwiches and ice-cold drinks.

Louis always carried the chairs; Ben always carried the poles. Louis cracked open the cans; Ben put the worms on the hooks. And hours later, when they were done, they'd come back to a patio picnic table set with a relish tray, a citronella candle, and four hands of cards dealt out. Rummy if Ma was dealing, conquian if it was Pop. Ben always won.

Wilson Lake was where the Yero boys learned how to swim, where they caught too many bullheads to count, where they showed off to the three Hannon sisters who sometimes sat on the beach across the lake. Where Louis nearly drowned when he was five, where Ben cut his calf open on the boat trailer when pulling the damn thing in for the winter.

In the long exposure of lives across time, two blurry boys run in long, streaking pathways. Swimming, playing, growing. But through the blur, clear as a July afternoon, sit a couple of brothers, in a couple of folding chairs, with a couple of fishing poles and a cooler filled with lunch meat sandwiches and ice-cold drinks.