Sun on its way down, giving one last burst of hot light before it moves away for the day. Into another time zone. For other people.
But I’m not concerned much about other people. Other time zones. Not now. Not today. Not lately. All there is and needs to be is this small world at home.
My wife with her feet in the kiddie pool. Sipping wine.
Kids running through the sprinkler. Fingers, lips, tongues stained red from superhero popsicles.
∞
I’ll pray for rain tonight. After everyone’s in bed. I hope it comes fast and long and hard. Even if that means I cannot sleep. That tomorrow will be hotter, muggier. And that I’ll be in this same chair. Smack dab in the middle of the same routine. Sweating. Drinking ice water. Saying the same things.
Because sometimes, all we need is a break. A change of temperature. Drops of rain.
It’s a fine night for a downpour. For me and my wife to sit on the front porch, under the ugly awning. Breathe deep. Say nothing. Smile. But we won’t do that if it does not rain. Instead, we’ll sit on the couch or lay in bed, crank up the fans, and watch a movie. Escape a little into the night. The dark. Away from the sun. And we’ll try to edge close to sleep. So that our pillows take us deep. To places we cannot now be. In this heat. This city. This time zone. With all this love steeped in responsibility and expectation.
∞
“If I didn’t have kids, I’d live in the heart of a big city,” she said.
She swirled her feet in the small yellow pool.
“If I didn’t have kids, I’d live in the country,” I said.
I stepped in. Relief shot up my legs, into my gut, through my arms.
She smiled.
“You’re a country bumpkin at heart.”
I sat down in the pool. Bits of grass floating. Specks of dirt floating. My wife leaned over, scooped a red-legged grasshopper out of the water and set him in the lawn. I Looked over at the kids. Our daughter, all new to this, a few weeks from turning one. Our son, four going on thirteen. Both of them laughing. Wet and aglow in the fading daylight. And I knew our talk was only that of tired parents—people in love without time for dinners and movies, nights out with friends—things people do before diapers and bills, schedules and vows. But watching the kids, I knew we didn’t want it any other way.
“We need a vacation,” I said.
“We do,” she said. “Some place warm.”
I splashed her.
“We’re already plenty warm,” I said.
“Warm, not hot,” she said, splashing me back.
“Okay. How about a place by the water? An ocean. A lake. I don’t care. Just you and me. A cabin. Sleeping in. Staying up late. Walking the beach. Swimming and—”
Just then, our daughter stole our son’s popsicle and tossed it to the ground. He threw himself down, next to it, as if struck by lightning.
“They’re beat,” she said.
“Yes. Fun in the sun. Sweet treats. All that running.”
We got up. Shared a look we used to share before we were WE and the kids were ours and life took off running with us. And I knew one day we’d have it again. Just like when I’d visit her in the city. When she’d drive out to see me in the country. But for now, there were more important things to carry.
“I’ll get her,” she said.
“I’ll get him,” I said.
And each of us carried a wet, sticky, crying kid inside. Out of the sun. Out of the heat. Away from the end of another good day in our garden in the city.
~ KJ
Leave a Reply