One. Two. Three. Four...
Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
The sounds of summer are drifting on the breeze through my open window. A group of kids who live on the street behind me are seeking and hiding. Bright green leaves dance, sending shadows across my arm as they filter the sun. It sinks down, lower and lower over the Oquirrh Mountains. It is warm and, though not in the technical sense...
it is summer.
After kindergarten let out late this morning, two moms and I took our five sons (no daughters between us) to the pool. The breeze--the never ending, always enduring, wind that plagues our valley--prevented any real sense of perfection in the air. Teeth chattered, goose bumps puffed. Still, we just couldn't complain. They smiled and laughed and every care they might otherwise have vanished into this high desert air.
On our way to the pool at noon I saw three teenage girls walking down the street. They looked like they were in pajamas. I imagined their story. School's out for the summer (not for my year round elementary school son but for the older kids). Maybe they slept until eleven and woke up with a real and undeniable desire for a Slurpee. Nothing else matters. It's simply summer and sometimes a girl's gotta have a 7-11 run. In her jammies.
If I close my eyes, I can transport myself back to those endless days. School was out and summer stretched before me like a blank canvas. I knew September was coming but it was so far in my future all that mattered was the pool and the beach and the mall and the thick smell of sunscreen.
Some neighbor, somewhere, would wake me up with his lawn mower. If not that, then a pair of birds squabbling in the tree. The days were long and hot. The tan lines were bold. The friends were forever.
It is my season.
Bright. Hot. Vibrant. Stretching before me with plans and dreams and sparkling smiles. I drink in the smell of sunscreen on my sons--intoxicated. Their warm skin kisses mine as we sit, side by side, sharing popsicles. We dance this tango of freedom from the icy tendrils of the harsh winter.
These are the days.
These are the days of the endless summer.