Outside is here

The magnolias have begun to make spectacles of themselves. I carry my jacket to the train home. On the way I pocket a few petals for Q and The Boy. The Boy will say they smell like fuschia.

In the city, it's before the concrete has soaked up weeks of heat, and the air is cool, full of pleasant possibilities. Getting closer, our building and the parks around it have been perfumed by the ocean. Inside, The Boy tells me that he's played in the park all day in short sleeves, and Q just smiles and literally bounces around our little house. They're all chatter as I urge them into socks and shoes so that we can make the most of what's left of the day. They want to slide, so we slide. I lose track of how many times. Q scurries back up for another run, telling the world, "I'm faster than an airplane!" Above us all, a jet etches the blue and does seem slower than she. The Boy goes down feet first, then on his stomach, then like he's sleeping, then slicked and sped by a spread of sand. My lovely wife happens upon us on her way home and receives hugs from us all. When the light finally gives out, we go inside for baths and bed. This is what we've been waiting for for what seems like forever.

Outside is here.