We sat on the front porch, ice cream remnants hardening on the insides of our bowls, sweat on our skin from a summer day without air conditioning cooling in the breeze from a thunderstorm that never quite arrived, watching the storm clouds form over the nature preserve up the hill, then float away over our heads, while patches of blue sky peaked out, then disappeared.
And the air cooled further and the sun slipped behind the ridge, and goosebumps formed on my bare arms and shoulders but they felt good, refreshing, and we sat and talked of the dreams and challenges of the future until the mosquitoes started biting and the NBA game came on inside.
But we left the front door open and I watched lightening bugs spark in the darkness while I listened to the game and his frequent criticisms of the refereeing and punched the needle in and out, in and out, of the fabric as the stitches blurred and a face began to peer out at me from the canvas.
And I fell asleep to the buzz of the fan and the slam of a car door somewhere out in the darkness and the faint cheers and whistles and music from the television in the living room below me, and the smell of the rain that never fell still lingering on the night air.
And today they ask me, “How was your weekend? What did you do?” and I find myself grasping for words.
I laughed over beers with his siblings-turned-friends; I vacuumed and dusted and emptied clothes I never wear from overflowing drawers and cleaned stress and tension from a busy week out of my soul; I cooked anything for the week ahead that could heat up my kitchen in my first foray into a summer with no air conditioning; I rescued plastic bags from ferret dens and found other treasures first stolen, the hidden behind the piano, and counted flower seedlings peeking up at me from the front of the house; and I slept long and deeply into the mornings.
What did I do? Nothing particularly interesting or out of the ordinary, but little things that, added together, made for an immeasurably good weekend.
How was yours?