On a day like this one I can’t get Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘Summertime‘ out of my head. These days seem so easy, each hour slow and syrupy.
My daughter asks me to fill her paddling pool. I stand in it with the hose and the cool water rises slowly up my ankles. Ezra watches me carefully from his bouncy seat in the shade, occasionally kicking or grabbing the air. Ava runs inside and puts on her pointy pixie hat, then decides against it and goes for her pumpkin one instead. She comes out with the sunscreen too, preempting my next request.
None of the housework is done. I’d like to make homemade pizza and potato salad for dinner but these afternoon hours collapse in the heat and every day, evening is a surprise.
I think of other things on my list. Bake cookies. Cut out fabric. Clean the bathroom. But instead it seems wise to concede that the day is already perfect and head on out to the park for the second time.
And this evening, whilst I’m cleaning up the debris, covering sandpits and paddling pools, picking up stray T-shirts and wet swimming costumes, bringing empty glasses and orange peel inside, I stand in the garden and remind myself of this still point between two summer days, where everything is easy if you let it be.