When the peonies bloom, as they did in my grandmother’s flower bed when I was a child, those simple, sandpile, popsicle, wooly-bear caterpillar days seem not so long ago.
There was shade under the willow tree, a bench inside the grape arbor and damp-scented dimness in the tunnel under the snowball bush, but I followed the sun. I would lay in the grass, for hours, it seems, just watching the clouds in the blue sky. I would study the ants, coming and going, from their mounded houses along the edges of the yard. I would twirl in the swing until dizziness took over, then collapse onto the hot sand. Days seem to stretch on forever as the sun held out long after supper was finished.
As a child, I loved the warmth of summer. I still do!