The heat down by the lake– as if this isn’t an enormous inland sea that emanates cold from its depths that the distant sun can’t do a thing about.
The unintentionally matching blue and yellow with my son as we had a picnic supper on the rocks somewhere I’d only ever driven past: too close to home to stop.
And his aliveness and lightness, leaping easily and like an animal at home in its body. And the youngness that’s still there like a vein of bright quartz at the core– games and inventions and ideas and wonderings not held back by any need to be someone other than himself.
Commentaires