It is a summer evening in July. I snuck out from the children to sit on the front porch. One of my favorite places to be. Sporadic droplets of cool water prickle my skin. A light drizzle isn’t enough to shoo me away from listening to the birds chirp, watch the kittens pounce across the way and observe the clouds pass me by at a turtles pace.
Although its no Facebook, opening a window to the very exciting world of others. A view that can seem taunting. “Na-na-na-boo-boo. I’m having more fun than you.” The only action interrupting me are the cars that cruise by. Reminding me of when I was a child, sitting on my aunts lap counting the cars that passed or guessing which color might whiz by next.
An orange balloon rises above the trees. Must have broken free from a party or set free from a child’s grip. Either way, free and floating, being carried by the winds. I keep my eye one it until it is swallowed up by the clouds. Up, up and away.
Buzzing sounds of cicadas echo and break the silence. They are loud and persistent, as men can be.
Summer is in full bloom on Long Island, as we are as far in as we are out. My evening may not be exciting, yet its my definition of being happy. This is peace.
