The summer runs along, a serpentine of hot days, slipping through time. We wake and play and work a little, we rest and everyone is crazy in the afternoons with boundless energy to burn.
I shoo them out to the yard, these wild colts with legs too long, and manes a-tangle. They spin and flick and romp until the sun disappears and I find myself weary and aching for quiet, for cool sheets and three pillows behind my head.
This season we drift, in between now and the next. School work goes mostly undone, except for the daily math–I’m cruel for this, I know. That’s what they think. But I push because it’s important, and maybe a little, because I failed so many times before them.
The sun beams hot and the breezes are warm now. We blow bubbles and smoke marshmallows for S’mores on a thick saturday afternoon. We stand around a hot grill with sweat running cool streaks down our backs, with cheeks pinking from sun and exertion.
These in between days keep winding around, and I sometimes forget that summer is it’s own season–not a transition. It’s me who’s in transition. It’s my heart that’s winding through decisions of faith and love and words worth sharing, and ones not meant to be.
The kids play for hours, unaware of the world around them. I like it this way for now. This is where we always are, in between now and the next stage. Next matters, but not as much as right now.
The in between is a season of it’s own.
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