It had been an especially warm spring in the tristate area, and we were late beginning the annual spring ritual. Trees in full glory and irrigated plush green lawns appeared at least 3 weeks prematurely, making it seem we were all the more tardy. I turned the car onto the gravel drive as I had done hundreds of times before. Preoccupied with thoughts of the work to be done, I had not considered what I would find after the 90-minute trip.

The general affect of the property was familiar but clearly out of place. I had seen this constellation of signs many times around the lake over my 50 years of attendance, but never at my family’s place. Boats yet to be disturbed from hibernation huddled under blue tarps long past their neighbor’s release to the water. Wooden lengths of dock slept alone on the beach next to a few pieces of driftwood and dehydrated fish carcasses that had collected over the winter. Weeds had fully invaded the driveway and were making a bold advance into the sunburned yard.

There was no mistaking that the owner died over the winter. The only thing missing was the for sale sign.

My son, who was on loan to us from the Naval ROTC for the summer, and I did as much work as we could in a day. We cleaned, sorted, tossed, installed, and assembled. By the time our muscles ached, the cottage was almost ready for summer. There was too much work and too little time to think much about my brother. I left with the satisfaction that my sister-in-law would not have too much work to do.

Two weeks later, we were invited to use the cottage for the week. My kids had ventured to New Mexico to hike the Sangre de Cristo mountain range, so my wife and I had the simple one-story cottage to ourselves. Returning to the place purchased by my parents when I was 10 years old turned out to be more difficult than anticipated.

The heavy lifting had been done. We could have just relaxed the whole week, but I was unsettled. And grief had crept up like a child uncertain about waking a napping father. I sat on the corner of the bed lost in grief and uncertain of consolation or renewal. I thought about what I promised and what I owed my brother. That moment marked the beginning of one of the best weeks I have spent at Clear Lake, Indiana.

I laced up an old pair of my brother’s work shoes, one size too big for me, and found myself rooting through the shed that rested in a stand of ill-mannered pine trees. The shed held many items one might find useful around a freshwater lake such as tools, boat parts, rope, engine oil, and a dusty old bicycle. The main problem was that it had not been organized in years. Many items recalled visions of happy times from distant summers. Strange yet pleasing, it was, to find items labeled in my father’s handwriting.

The next day my wife and I cleaned like the Joint Commission on Cottages was due to arrive. The only thing missing was a nervous administrator. We organized and made piles for donation.

The day after that was the best of all. We traveled across Steuben County to the county seat to buy trees. Two years prior, a beautiful old ash succumbed to the emerald ash borer and left the yard on the lake side without a lick of shade. We found two honey locusts for the front and a maple and two crabapple trees for the side by the road.

The following day, we dug holes in dry, rocky, and unforgiving soil. Had it been my place, I would have been complaining. We mixed manure and peat moss, watered them in, and then put in stakes. The next day, because of the drought plaguing northern Indiana, I ran irrigation to each tree and installed a timer. We relaxed for the last part of the week and left full of the satisfaction of a job well done.

I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be grieving. The time is not so important. I guess the alternative is to have had a poor relationship with my brother and to know little grief. I’m content to know grief and be patient in its passing. I feel better about a lot of things now.

Each year when I return to the cottage, I will marvel at how the trees have grown and will see my brother in them. In a few years, the branches of the two honey locusts will reach to the sun and touch each other, as I will one day with my brother.

Dr. Baehren lives in Ottawa Hills, Ohio. He practices emergency medicine and is an assistant professor at the University of Toledo (Ohio) Medical Center.

Your feedback is welcome at David.Baehren@utoledo.edu.