It’s been 95 degrees here in Portland for several days and now we’re in the national news with heavy thunderstorms and wind, heat and rain. It’s been an odd weekend of the fast change from the chill of Maine springs into a summertime opening of windows while pulling shades to keep rooms cool as long as possible. The garden is very happy though, our tree peony already has eight flowers. They are the magical celebrities in the front yard. The kids had a weekend of friends, beach time, DJing at a party, sleepovers, a fencing tournament that went well, and tonight a State Championship soccer game was postponed due to lightning with 27 minutes left, 0-0.
Yet without the advantage of much hindsight I have a guess as to the focus of my own spring into summer: it’s a curious look at my relationship to time which is counted by the changing house rhythms of growing teenagers. They seemed to have quickly stepped out of needing parents to punch in for so many moments of the day and are gingerly moving into, out of, onto…
A week ago we wore sweaters and jackets, muddy shoes were left at the door. Now Cora is sunburned and I’m barefoot and wondering if I missed a whole season somewhere but know I couldn’t have. I’ve been here. We’ve all been here. Home. There are still 24 hours in a day. Still.