strawberry picking on the very first day
the cutting of roadside flowers, the dancing as cars flew past
the first bright red cherry tomato
the first tiny chamomile flower blooms
the standing in the backyard with a bowl of ice cream and strawberries, the blink of lightning bugs all around
the feeling in that moment that nothing else really mattered
the way I could not stop laughing at the spinning woman
the discovery of blackberry bushes along the back edges of the yard
the discovery of a secret magic lightning bug place
the walks I took with lucy
ice cream cones in the car in the rain
ezras's fifteenth birthday and the junk food sleepover
sitting in the backyard in the dark with God
the cutting of the strawberries, fingers stained pink, kitchen filled with the scent
the organizing of four summers worth of collected seashells
the putting up of that tent, looking out through the top at the night sky
dinners outside on the patio with the little red and white checked tablecloth
the butterfly that kept visiting my garden
the black-eyed susans that lasted forever
the walk to the park, the time we spent on the swings
strawberry paletas from the ice cream truck, the long shadows of skateboarders
the film the last black man in san francisco, three times, three times I went
cut lemon balm in a jar next to my bed
the baking of a strawberry cake (with strawberries picked) from scratch
the hour I spent at the book store
the jolts of color that are the marigolds, the dahlias, the zinnias
the promise of the cosmos, of leggy sunflowers
topo chico bottles lining my kitchen windowsill
ava's unexpected bubble habit
the dragging of ava's mattress into ezra's room for adventure time marathons
the time I cut all the sleeves off of all my shirts and felt free for a second
the moment ava and I discovered the camping lantern also functioned as a disco light
the night we spent in the tent, disco lantern flashing
ava, nervous and excited at orientation
ezra, in late afternoon light, magic, honeyed light
the violent rush of the chattahoochee beneath me
barbeque sandwiches and lemon merinque pie on an old greyhound busthe violent rush of the chattahoochee beneath me
colors and pattern and infinite quiet at st. EOM's pasaquan
the traveling down the back roads of georgia
the standing beneath a three hundred year-old oak
the sky wild with pinks and oranges on our first night in florida
my feet in the ocean on the very last day
