Tonight I sat on a bench and watched my two children dance among fireflies as the setting sun bounced off their tanned backs. They held hands and chanted “ICE CREAM!” They slid down slides and took turns pushing one another on swings as if their worlds were tied through blood and friendship for decades. I watched as they pretended to discuss take-out, watermelons, and the new shoes River would purchase the next morning. River mostly talked and Oak mostly nodded. (If you hadn’t already assumed so.) The park grew quieter and their laughter grew louder — echoing through the playground tunnel and up and over the swings.
This summer has been amazing. Its been slow, then fast. I equate its speed to the amount of fun we’ve had. And if not by time’s hand, then so by the half crying and laughing I do almost every evening while I am in the tired haze that hits me once they’re off to sleep. It is a moment of delusion and pride, and love is the nucleus.
The wind started to set in and the park was empty, nothing but space left for roaming mice and mosquitos. As we exited, the kids hopped on the chipping black iron gate locking their feet as I gradually swung it open. We squeezed out the last drops of summer, only seeds remain I’m sure. Farewell.