We lay scattered atop flowered sheets, comforted by the lulling whisper of the fan. Breathing is labored for summer has arrived. The down cover is pulled back. The glass slider is at the end of its track. Here we dream of day trips to the resevoires, cool dips and the scent of pine sap and misery. The summer is intense and leaves the green spring growth stretching for water and yellowed. Only the color from our special garden bursting with exquisite blossoms and bulging fruit, buzzing with life, misted at night, stands the overhead sun. My son lays still beside me, his pale plush skin gently lifting on inhalation. My soul fills quickly with a hot compelling rush of fullfillment- living my longtime dream of bringing to the world a small person. We share a renewed glory in these soft July nights. A sweet tender boy and his pure joy superseed the years past. July was once an airconditioned hunt for a first home, a warm house heavy with a coconut candle, the explosion of hollyhocks and spiraling tendrills of jasmine vine, soft guitar strings and white gauze curtains, late nights laughing around campfires, exploring the natural land seeking answers from the forests and rivers, dancing to sunsets, scouring the orchards for photoshoots, riding bikes along the railroad tracks, swinging a wicker basket through farmers markets, laying with our heads touching and our arms stretched under the sky as the stars go shooting by. There always seems to be a chance to be a child again in July. To run wild and find magic in simplicity.
