the smell of fresh cut grass. chalk prints on my son's elbows and shorts. his rainbow drawn across the driveway. the smell of baby sunscreen. the warmth of our bodies touching when he gets out of the pool and sits on my lap in the sun. the thrill finn feels running after lightening bugs and the silliness and intimidation of holding one on his little finger.
late nights. no bedtime. sleeping in together. the sound of the garbage truck's screeching waking us up and the shadow the sassafras tree makes on our bedroom curtain behind the sun.
driveway playing, the black pavement hot and the greenness of the trees and grass surrounding us.
the day's light getting shorter, i notice but pretend not to.
bike rides in late evening before the sun goes down. rides to the playground. to the park to throw rocks into the creek. to the library bridge we hide under and watch for deer. to get a vanilla ice cream cone. finn's always tastes best.
nap times in our bedroom. the little fan blowing by the window and finn's blankie wrapped around his ams and legs. i watch his belly go up and down. i take a mental picture of the sweetness in his sleeping face.
full moons and moon dances in the middle of the street like my mom did with us. holding hands, our legs moving together as we turn under the silver glow. and the laughing, loud and true.
mornings of quietness and coffee. my son's two year old legs spotted with little cuts and a bruise on his knee intertwined with mine. he puts his head on my chest and watches his show. i watch him. his tiny body relaxed and still. feeling safe in our space. the windows open with the breeze of the ending summer whispering through our little home.