I wrap in my comforter, freshly drawn down from the line; sun and breeze dried and watch my boys from the porch. They play games I never played the rules coming from some understood but unknown source. They understand each other, although often don't agree.
Littlest runs to me full speed but slows suddenly as he reaches my lap. My head bows slightly down to him, my face burying down into his hair, smelling there the drowsing pungency of late June; us both sleepy but unwilling to let the day go.
With my chin still touching his head, I look out across the land, a patchwork quilt of green and gold. The tractors trace the planted lines in the field, large golden rectangles plopping back down to the ground. Other strips are the green of corn standing knee high and thirsting in the field.
The cooling darkness finally comes, miraculously giving a new burst of life to the bundle once in my lap, now racing around, jar in hand. All I see is a happiness blur; hands reaching hands out to catch the flying beacons and legs racing.
Back into my arms again, comfortably curling around with brown stained knees close to his chin.
His eyes close and he unwillingly lets out a little sigh.
Husband and father all-in-one, tenderly takes him from me and I get a last glance of dirt between the toes of a summer-running the child.