I wear flip flops and the mulch clothes my feet in a permanent film, of summer. It's on their faces, It's on my kitchen floor, I wipe it away but it won't.
It's there until the leaves freefall from branches. And pencils are sharp, and books smell like sour and library. We do one last park day of the season's vacation. And walk through a secret trail to the school, and the boys find out who their teachers will be.
He said, this is where you'll come someday.And I thought, in my (head)(heart), I'm not so sure about that. Maybe I'll homeschool her after all. Though, there's no time nor room in my head for those thoughts today.