Woof, the summer whooshes down like an express bus.
Time is a mystery here, passing as it does to the rhythm of the kitchen, mixers whine softly under their exertions, steam curls as mist above caldrons of soup, the pace ebbs and flows with the tapping of knives against chopping blocks.
It’s a hot, late and muggy Sunday evening, the close of a long week.
The back porch beckons; condensation slowly sliding down the side of a tall Tom Collins, the morning paper rests unruffled and unread.
Momma totters up most evenings to run the dogs, sending them dashing across the lawn for tennis balls she sends lightly aloft, one after another, from her battered racquet, until Dexter Dog, followed by Lola, refuse to return and lie, spent for the moment, panting in the shade.
We focus on what is before us for the day or week, preparations needed, schedules adhered to, messages returned.
But, at the periphery, from the corner of the eye, the change is apparent, the light slants, neighbors move, old friends drift away like apparitions trailing wisps of memory cloth behind.
MiMi always arrived in an automobile fit for a family of twelve, running up over the curb and parking with a “plunk”, then pecking her way up the drive like a brilliant red plumed bird for a quart jar of our sweet, green goddess salad dressing.
We cherish that small scene, as we should do each moment of every day, for the truth is that it all goes by so quickly.
Take a moment, this very moment, to touch the one you love, pet the dog, breathe deep the day and remember.