reprieve

I woke up and the air was cool, and so I called her and said, "I know I'm supposed to clean out the car before I see you today. But the air is changed and new, and I think we should actually go for a walk maybe instead, before it gets hot again."

And she said, "You remembered!" (She meant about the car.)

She wasn't entirely convinced that my get-out-of-cleaning-the-car plan was legitimate, but she laughed and gave in, and we made a plan to meet in 15 minutes, car-still-a-mess. I walked over to her house with TBD (the bad dog) and we told the girls, "get your shoes on; we are going for a walk."

They protested. The little one cried that she could not find her moccasins. A simple reminder: "you are in charge of your own shoes." They rallied. We left.

"Oh!" she said, when we stepped outside. "It's lovely out! I had no idea!"

"Yes," I said, "I tried to tell you. You thought it was just the car."

"Well," she smiled, "I do know you."

Sometimes you can forget all about hope when it is so tremendously hot for days and days on end. But then, always, the heat breaks. The clouds roll in. There is wind. 



The girls ran and ran and were so tired when we got back home that they fell into bed for a snooze quickly and easily.

And we, the mamas, fell into bed, too. A whole different kind of relief: the unfolding of bodies, the opening of hearts, the remembering of skin.

Summer, you are not my favorite. But, on this day, I acquiesce: I am overwhelmed by your beauty and kindness.