We were away long enough that everything was fresh, again. The colors delighted me (the tan of dry grass, the dark green of oak and pine) and so did the smells and the character of the air. The strawberries in the garden did not die from lack of water. I went to the market carried home fruits and brought home some more pots of herbs for the garden.
We’re settling into our summer routine, so simple and quiet during a week that in the wider world has been big and important and full of conversation. Right now, I’m mostly listening. After lunch, the sun at its hottest, Reed and Helen draw, Margot builds, I write. The Hobbit plays in the background. It is good to be home. It is good to see the rest of summer stretching easily out before us, full of time that belongs to no one and nothing but each other.
There are books to read, songs to hear, bushes of tomatoes ready to ripen. There are things to be said. The days are long. Summer is still just beginning.