Around the edges of these days, these last-two-weeks-of-school days, these long twilights, one more chapter, fajitas for dinner and mornings on the patio days, our summer rhythms are creeping in.
In truth, these last weeks of school are a sheer act of will, when all we want is to slip off our shoes, eat homemade ice cream, watch a whole movie, legs flung out on the couch, lose ourselves in a story or unroll a sheet of paper as long as the hallway and draw this whole town and the mountains and the mill where the family festivals are.
But there are a dozen days or so left of early mornings and lunch boxes and library books to return and awards days and cupcakes. That gives me some time, for recipe collecting and book lists and mamma dreaming about all the magic I can pour into these coming days. I can paint our imagined endless hours with a bigger brush. Our first summer read aloud arrived in the mail Saturday. I’ve fixed up a basket in the mudroom with sunscreen and bug spray. I’ve taken up the discipline again of my sun hat. The sheets wave from the line and stretch under the quilts with crisp softness. A couple of bouquets have already been crammed into blue Ball jars.
And over and under all these details, like “music seeping through,” is something woven of all of them and yet apart from them– the flavor and texture and sense of the essence of the days and evenings to come. The first slow golden hints of it are part of the joy– the anticipation of all those country roads and long meals and buckets of blueberries, and sunburnt boys. Part of the sweetness, of course, is that these summers are not endless, those boys are taller than last year. So I’ll set my dial to “savor.”