the chalk is hitting with a hollow clink as kids draw butterflies a couple of feet away from my head. maybe i should check my phone or i could bring out a book to read. nope. not today. today i’m going to lay down on the driveway and feel the the coarse cement underneath my head.
up there, right above us, is a blue, blue sky.
things are different from flat on your back. perspective is easily altered.
i’m just going to lay right here.
how exactly have i done that?
this swing set over here that a grandfather gifted our children, it’s holding the weight of taller boys and girls this spring.
how fast are the days i walk down this driveway.
my father’s cousin died last week. she’d been battling cancer for years and the fight ended in hospice, among family and friends. we experience death only as observers. we watch one another go. but as the years tick, death gets closer to us by claiming those of our generation; our cousins, our brothers, our sisters – until we know that we are next in line.
like the secretary of state. we take a number. we wait our turn.
“i’m laying in the driveway, staring at the sky.”
“i want a cookie.”
real time and driveway time collide. i’m pulling myself up and i’m hugging this smallest girl. i’m going in the house to find a cookie. i’m taking a number.