I breathe in the pine scent of the trees and taste the salty air coming off the water. “I love this place” I thought to myself as I lay sprawled out over a rock, feeling the warmth calm my skin. I was in the tiny cabin town in Maine that I had come to every summer of my childhood. The trails and paths full of memories from when I was little, papa picking me up onto his shoulders to pick apples, helping oma make cookies in the kitchen. Later there were summer romances, the time we experimented with alchohol behind the mess hall. But then I grew up, left home, forgetting almost completely the times I had spent in Winslow, Maine. But here I am twentysome years later returning for the last time, to prepare Oma’s estate.