Wednesday, September 19, 2012
When the sprinklers come on in the morning, they ache and groan under the house, the whoosh of release comes later.
It seems, each morning, that the sky is black, then blue then gray and finally, white, through the slats of my bedroom shade. Between sleep and wake I wonder if this is true for everyone.
The girls next door have high voices that reach over the hedge. Their father pulls them down with his own low one.
The air-conditioner kicks on, and the sweat on my neck cools.
I know that when I go into the boys' bedrooms, one will smile at me and the other will growl.
My soft bathrobe of green apples hides what's underneath, ripe for the picking.