Huge rain rushes in from yesterday's ninety-degree heat. A grey storm outside turns the sky green. Hot French Press coffee and an Indie band crooning in multi-part harmony set a reflective tone.
(My mom had called me that night, giggling and determined to outlast the light.
"I worked in my yard, and I can still see! I'm siting on my front step and some neighbors are out too. I always want to be out here on this longest day of the year, out until the very last light fades."
I had peered outside through the dark and pictured her out there, knees curled in deep twilight.)
Halfway through the summer, and yet I feel like summer has just started. My hopes and Project To Do lists for the summer stretch long, and I sit now, scrawling pen, re-evaluating, and trying to hold summer like pool water in scooped hands.
Two friends of ours crafted Caring Bridge sites this summer as cancer clobbered them. One of them, a young dad and husband, died last week. His funeral is today. The other friend awaits clinical photon light trials to target tumors in his brain, and the rest of us take deep breaths and try to wrap our brains around this hard new story for each of them and their families.
My ten year old son stood at his cabin window the first night, hearing high schoolers run and squeal in late-night games.
"Mom, it's still light out. Can I stay up?"
And I knew how the week would stretch out, late nights piling up fast, and how hours in the sun and sand would wipe him out.
"No, it's time to sleep, my boy. Tomorrow's another day. There will be so many fun things to do this week." I kissed him, tousling his summer blonde hair. Tiny curls swept up his forehead.
He slid under his sheet and blanket, pulling a tiny cheetah closer. I pulled curtains shut, the light already fading to grey.
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