Drizzly, muggy, step outside into the air and gasp, Baby at the bird feeder, bless her little heart.
Croaking frogs and calling roosters, it is morning in Lloyd, too late already to take the trash, gotta get some laundry done before folks start getting here, the boys are coming, of course, to Uncle Hank's party, Waylon too, I think.
Pancakes eaten and they had peaches in them this morning. The peaches are so good already this year, I can smell them every time I cross the kitchen. Summer smell. Summer smells of wet dirt and maybe-something-died-around-here and shrimp boiling and rain coming, rain going, summer smells of heat shimmering, simmering around the edges of the pot of the day.
The sky is not blue nor gray, but white, fishbelly white, not angelwing white and the formerly white magnolia blossom is brown now, new ones open to take its place.
A Sunday morning in June in North Florida. Folks coming over. Two pies yellow as small suns wait in the refrigerator in the garage to be covered in whipped cream, made of lime juice and egg yolks from my hens. I do not think I will make bread, having bought good loaves yesterday in town but who knows? I may change my mind. Too late for sourdough but there is yeast. Cover the tables with cloths, tidy up, make room in the kitchen for vast bowls of salad, make the tea, sweet and un, slice more limes, peel the hardboiled eggs, people coming over, family and family, blood and love, thick as the air on this humid day, put out butter on saucers to soften to go on the bread, ice down the beer, thirty-seven years ago I was in labor, confused about the pain, made crazy in the head with the pain, walking and swaying and really? there's a baby here?
There was a baby.
He's all grown up now. Tomorrow is his birthday.
Red cardinal in the camellia bush, husband lets out the chickens.
Our small world, we expand it today to welcome folks. Come in, come in. God, it's humid. Can hardly move in this weather.
Give me a hug.
I love you.