summer

I hear the birds singing until the last drop of light juice squeezes out of the perfect sky. Thirty-four years ago, I am running back to my house. Running down empty neighborhood streets with the sun slowly setting like a Willa Cather novel. There was not a care in the world and I, who worried about everything, felt peace. I run to get on my bike and chase a rainbow down to the ends. I thought riding all the way to the end of the neighborhood would surely bring me closer but it was still the same distance. How forewarning. I stop and turn around riding with the wind in my hair until dusk. I sleep soundly in my rural town. Just the crickets and the moon shining in my window on our one-acre patch of land overlooking the prairies. These were some of my best memories. Be grateful, my father said.