The kid just got into her car and drove off to ride a horse.
I mean, I knew she had her license, but I hadn't had to watch her drive away yet.
So, that was weird.
It gives me a vague replay of the sense of freedom that I got when she was finally potty trained, but there was no bittersweetness to losing the diapers at all.
We counted today in thunderstorms, as regular and as constant as a belltower. I took a nap on the couch when the internet went down, and I took another nap on the porch during an afternoon shower, when the rain tapping on the leaves matched so perfectly with the cool breeze it almost seemed engineered.
In between naps, I went down to the lake for possibly the last lake bath of the year. I river-bathed a lot growing up, so it seems both ritually wonderful and absolutely natural.
Thunder was already rumbling as I finished up. I made an unwise move with my razor, and scraped my thigh badly, just above the outer edge of my knee. The sacrifice for this year's lake baths has been made.
I got out before I spied lightning, then stood on the dock while the water turned green and aquamarine, and grew choppy with the oncoming storm, and the sky darkened to petrel gray. Directly overhead, the sun beat bright and warm; in the twenty minutes I was down at the lake, I got enough color to refresh my tan lines.
I wished I had my camera, but I knew would have spent more time trying to convince the camera to capture the color range I saw than I would have spent enjoying the weather. So I stayed where I was, dripping stone-scented water while blood welled and ran on my leg and the wind tried to whip my towel away from me.
I've always loved slanting golden light shining on grass while dark skies roll in; it might be my favorite single sight in the world. But paler yellow light from high above making jewel patches in water while dark skies roll in--probably a close second.
Now we have night bugs, and I think a tree frog or three.
Summer, I wish you'd never leave me.