Summer in the Suburbs

Summertime true and hot has begun. I think it is the Southerner in me that doesn't feel the Summer until it is fang deep in my bones, where the world tilt a whirls, creeps into your pores and sweats out on the white cotton pillow of morning. The girls are in dresses and bloomers and sticky tank tops, Mr. Curry is shirtless watering the plants and dirtgrasses, the dogs are panting and resting their underbellies on the cool kitchen floor. A deep cellular headache blooms from the swampy heat that gives way to a clean, pan hissing hot. The front yard is littered with buckets of dirt and flowers, fairy soups and small hard figurines of horses, hula hoops and a half collapsed swim pool for babies. Ever nurses naked against me after her bath at 7pm, clean but already a slight sweat on the top of her head, completely blissful on the queen sized soft bed with the fan humming. I hear Mr. Curry in the next room, back and forth from the barbeque and the kitchen, Lola and a friend giggling. Ian is at camp, Dakota in Hawaii with his Dad and Grandparents. Mr. Curry and I find each other at every opportunity, exhausted and stinky and half threshed from the heat, but never tired of each other's bodies.

Summer is here.