lakes that hold our moons

June 27, 2010 | Filed Under ordinary 

summer, hot on my shoulders, the backs of my knees. in the morning i think i should get into the garden early, pull out weeds, send water in puddles at the roots. but it is never earlier than the sun, never early enough, always hotter than i think it will be. lola digs little holes with the trowel. the boys use the wheelbarrow for everything that it’s not meant to be used. the garden is a dusty place and i feel a little tug of sadness when i go into it. we had such plans, you and me, and look at us now.

june, the bride of summer, sweeping across the grass white and new, july and august beside her, flowers in circles in their hair. i’m a little sad when she swings away for the year.

in the summer we take off the heavy blankets, the heavy clothes. the wading pool is always full. in the shade we imagine the air curling around us in a coil of cool and then disappearing behind the heat of the day. the air conditioner bellows and blows and every june i thank the inventor of it and wonder about the people before electric cold, the sandaled feet of disciples under sun and dust, the girls in the prairie with golden faces looking to the sky, men and boys in fields, factories, women giving birth under the merciless faceless sun, thousands of meals cooked in and over fire for thousands of mouths to eat. we, the people of today, fat and white and weak, but cold, cold when we don’t want to be hot. a hundred years and more tucked away for the invention of cold.

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