Technically speaking, the Dog Days of Summer are reserved for those swampy, swarthy mid-August afternoons when no amount of iced tea or Pacifico can quench the thirst that bores into your throat like a tick on a, well, dog.  Puritan.  Evil.  No getting around them.

We’re not even close to those days… yet.

But here we sit in 90 degree weather; thankful and hopeful that when the sun goes down and quiet descends on the neighborhood, that peacefulness will creep into our homes like a benevolent Angel of Death, ready to anoint us with the passage of yet another day that will pile onto the already massive memories of Summers before.  Pools, bellyflops, creeks and tadpoles; stalwarts of these moments that build character.  It’s just a scratch, boy.

Laziness is the rule of the day, insofar as even when you can’t be lazy, every cell in your body slows down to entice you to its natural resting place, a place of beauty, dreams, sweaty sheets and foggy heads.

The girls watch bad television, I put words to screen.

When I look at where we could be in relation to where we are now, I revel – no pun intended – in what we’ve done and accomplished.  Embracing the possibilities and being thankful for our small, well-built home, I’d give nothing to change it.  The joy and mania of adolescence at the swimming pool to the wind whispering sleep from the leaves, the beauty exists not outside, but in here, in 79 degree living rooms laden with the smells of curry and the promise of laughter and energy.

Anticipation in its most visceral form:  Knowing that wonder and greatness is ahead.

It is the sweetest of all deserts.



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