On Sunday our family walked to nearby school grounds. Our daughter, Tamara, ran through the dandelion field, her sunlit dress swaying, messy hair bouncing with each step. And for a moment I was exhilarated.
Past the field and next to the school building, I settled at the base of a blossomed tree. Its shadow stretched far across pea gravel strewn with pink petals and trembling leaf silhouettes.
There came a tickle on my left arm, an ant, and there were many traveling around my legs. But they were too sparse, too tiny and scattered to ruin my relaxation.
In the distance, the soft clang of chain against metal beat rhythmically like a pulse through my veins, like the steady back and forth of the children on swings. Kevin, tall and reddened by toil under sun, awaited the inevitable plea for another push.
I did eventually grow weary of brushing ants off my arms, and the children were getting hot so we walked home again.