The end of summer sun filters through the needles of the big pine tree, throwing shadows on the green weeds in front of me. The cicadas trill out, calling to each other in their waning days. The clear sky spreads overhead, stretching out to the autumn season so close that you can taste it in the cooling air.
“I just farted! I just farted!” My younger son’s voice rings out over the neighborhood from the blow up pool in our front yard.
And with that declaration cutting through the peace and quiet, I laugh. I laugh and laugh and laugh.
Everything seems so much right now. So much blue in the sky, so much green in the grass, so much beauty and yet so much pain. Even the sun feels overwhelming in its brightness.
I push my glasses up on my nose – now transformed into sunglasses because I’m older and dorky and don’t care that they’re dorky because they’re convenient – and everything dims just enough. Just enough that everything comes into focus, sharp and bright enough that I can truly see. I can see how glorious it all is, from the neighborhood streets to the endless sky to the child splashing in the pool. Especially the child splashing on the pool, his laughter mixing with mine and carrying me through and through and through.