She struck out across the lake, lazy strokes hardly disturbing the water. Soon it would be winter, the lake transformed into a frozen diorama of skaters and stalls selling hot chestnuts and mulled ale. Sixty seasons she had swum there during which time a gangly twelve year had matured into a doting grandmother. They had been eventful years, a loving husband, a son, a daughter lost, but throughout it all there had been the lake, the one constant in her changing world. She turned on her back, hands pulling for the shore, the lump in her chest tight against her swimsuit.