Scenes

It's a beautiful afternoon. Our six week reprieve between the capricious winds of June and the large metal key in the bolt sound of the heat thudding on in late August. Door locked. Sentence begun. Summer over.

The kind of afternoon I'll cry for the loss of someday, fingering old pictures with my spider-veined hands and wondering where it all went and why it was in such a hurry.  Why I was in such hurry?

Quinn bends upside down, hanging backwards from a bike rack. He is kitsch-cool in his shades and overalls and Spiderman flip flops.  He has something to him, at three years old, god help us. An innate likability and poise. An understanding of his space in the world and how his ripples affect others.  It could go either way with him, there is deep goodness and cruelty.

Saige swings across the purple monkey bars still in her soccer camp shorts and yellow t-shirt. She makes it back and forth three times before she looses her grip and lands steady on bent knees.  She has practiced for a year to reach level 'astonishing' in monkey bar proficiency. That is Saige. She either wants it so badly it drives us all insane or she can't be bothered. Please let her want school. It could be a nightmare if she wanted it to be. Can you major in monkey bars?

Silly mother worries, I scold myself. She will want something, eventually. School isn't everything.

Garrett twirls in the sparkling droplets of the splash pad fountain. He is the exact opposite of Quinn's studied awareness. He spins free and fast, unconscious of his existence in relation to others. He is uninhibited and outgoing, but in that loose, overeager way that can bring rejection's hammer crashing down hard.  My heart constricts for him, watching at a distance. He'll be hurt and it will be the thing to love most about him.  Quinn will stand behind his wall and watch others scrape their skin trying to scale it.

A biplane purrs overhead, drifting, almost stationary, and Nate signs at me "airplane! airplane!"  His designer-bedroom-blue eyes thrill. The sticky juice of the apple he eats whole drips off of his chin and stains the front of his shirt. He even likes the cores. I have to fish the seeds and stem from behind his puppy-sharp teeth. I sit beside him in the lotus position on our perfect patchwork towel, marketed for summer in some ridiculous seasonal catalog. 

If you watched from the hill on the other side of the baseball field, you might think how relaxed and serene I look. My red highlights rich in the sunlight. My eyes on the pines on the ridge behind you. You never know what you're really watching, do you? You might be surprised.

It's a lie.  I'm terrified. My stomach flips and the back of my tongue goes dry in surges.  I sip a tall recycled Starbucks cup of ice water at my side to force moisture down my cottony throat.  There's nothing for it but to live my summer, ride the waves of adrenaline and drink my water and my children down in big, thirsty gulps.

I'm scared whether the answer is yes or no.  Some day soon, I'll tell you the question.

For now, you tell me, since I need distraction, are you always as you seem?