Some evenings, by chance, are perfect. The sun is bright, but not harsh. The breeze is light and warm, cooling, but not chilly, with a light scent of grass and charcoal. The children are tired, but not crabby. Not whiny. Their bare feet, icy cold from the glacier-fed hose water and dust covered from hard play, hang below the picnic table. The beer, an hour earlier as they ran through the sprinklers, was cold. Now, after dinner, it sits in your stomach and runs warm in your veins.
Daddy roasts marshmallows over the last of the coals and the deeply-browned ooze melts the chocolate.
Their sticky, chocolate-covered faces melt your heart.
Summer. 2010. Just like this.
(They were all wearing bibs. Outside. At the picnic table. Have I mentioned my aversion to sticky? I can out-anal anyone. It's scary. Comments are closed, summer love to all of you.)
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