These Summer Days

There was a chill in the air yesterday morning, so much so that I dug out a pair of knitted slippers from my sadly unorganized tote of knitted accessories that dwells in the bottom of my closet. Fall was trying to creep in. Just a bit. All tricky tricky.

I am just not ready.

These summer days have been so perfect. Hot, but perfect. The fleeting moments of poolside knitting while Husband and Reed take the requisite afternoon nap. The patch of sunflowers, nearly done blooming. (Should I plant another round? Yes!) The long hours of daylight that warms my soul forever and ever and ever, my absolute favorite. The blackberry picking, nearly done for the year.

Or days like yesterday, an afternoon spent on the Trinity River, ever weary that a shovelful of sand may be flung my direction at any moment. I spent an in ordinate amount of time trying to convince Reed that the turtle basking on a rock wore the same type of sunscreen we did (Babyganics SPF 50). He didn’t buy it…Too smart, that one. (How do you get your little ones to wear sunscreen?)

I know we have another month or more of afternoons passed swimming in the pool or at the river, but I also know the water will grow a bit crisper each occasion, just like these cool mornings. Only a bit. Until one day, I will gasp when I plunge into the water and dash for my beach towel just that much quicker. And swimming will be over for the year.

I am trying to stay present. In the moment. Not mourn a season that isn’t even over yet. Maybe this is my reminder. To treasure it all. Each hour. It’s going to be over soon. Too soon. The summer knitting. This special time with my young, playful, willful, adorable, insanely messy son. My favorite peach tree (already eaten, every last fruit) and my most yearned for crop of seedless green Himrod grapes. All of it. Just like my sunflower patch.

There is so much on my summer wish list I know just won’t happen. Again. Little things. My hanging flower baskets on the front porch look lackluster this year still. They need plant food. More water. More care.

Next year.

But today—this summer day—I will cherish. All of it. Even though I have caught Reed’s cold and feel not-quite-human. And even though my living room floor is covered in an array of primary colored plastic building blocks (I am pretending not to notice they have also been cleverly stuffed between the couch cushions). Even though my kitchen sink is overflowing with yesterday’s dishes, left abandoned as we fled out the door to the river.

Today will be a great summer day. Each warm moment, wet or dry, Knit or unknit. Mess or no mess (probably a mess).

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