In the late afternoon, when the thunderstorm has come and gone and rumbles off out to sea, the neighborhood children come out to play, dressed in summer swimsuits and wearing the wet hair the rain made for unselfconscious puddle-play. The clouds follow the rain out to sea, and the sunset comes after, late past eight and on to nine and we watch the spring hand summer her baton as the seasons turn.
The first pie of the season waits our enjoyment – I worry that there isn’t enough sugar, but there is and it is perfect, tangy pink nectarines just ready for baking, silky sweet on the tongue (because I didn’t forget any ingredients this time). July will bring our figs, and we’ll get bug-bit and watch the summer sunsets go tropical across the river as the light changes again in the lush depths of the yellow-green that stays long in Charleston before it grows tired and begs to to go to sleep early again.
Maybe we’ll get a grill this year; maybe we won’t. We’re already eating the summer salads and the light-weight foods, and opening our windows every time it’s cool enough to let the air blow through and remind us we’re alive. It feels like picnicking when we sit down for a meal now.
I’m moving our bedroom to the front of the house so I can wake to the early sunrise as long as I can. We never finished our spring cleaning, but the Solstice is a new beginning, isn’t it? We’ll watch the moon rise full tonight, and I think I’ll light a candle or two when the light goes, and I’ll hold my littles a tiny bit longer, because summer is their time, because they mark their years in the summer, at the solstice, and I tell them how special this longest day is and let them stay late for the sunset.
We make the memories and hold the memories, because memories are what we become, and the more we have, the more we are, I think.