The song of the crickets rings out when the path dips down, after the isthmus and before the southern end of the lake, and if you look up you’ll see a flock of birds overhead flying in V formation and if you look across you’ll see the baby lake birds fully grown now and with babies of their own, scurrying off the path to get out of your way.
When I return home I’ll let my hair down as I prepare the roast lamb for my adult son who is dining with me tonight. The fragrance will permeate all of the house and all of me and I won’t care. I’ll watch with glee as my son devours the dinner I’ve prepared for him and allow him to fill the room with his conversation: the love he has for his girl, the frustration at being the youngest of the crew at work, the struggle of making ends meet. And I will say things like, “she’s a lovely girl, I really like her” and “it’s a test of your strength and courage, son,” or “all of the things in life that are worth having are difficult at times” knowing that tonight when he lies down to sleep his conscience will be unshackled.
And tomorrow when my daughter asks me to do her washing I’ll say, “do it yourself, you sexist!” 🙂