That time of year the days outlast us, the sun comes through the trees and into our family room around 9 PM.
Saturday night with Cat Stevens, the girls’ dramatic dance interpretations of Peace Train, the irony that my mom would remarry a guy who played as a studio sweetener in London, then, whose guitar may be in the background, now. Me in the 70s pulling out the tape from the 8-track and leaving it a mess on the floor, for my dad. Growing up with a Cat Stevens calendar: a picture of him sweaty, bare-chested and bearded, for me to mark the days off, 1975.
We sleep in past 8 AM, and the dog licks the bottoms of my feet. Charlotte comes in and asks if it’s a school day, and climbs into bed with us. We play an iPhone recording of Lily telling the story of Hansel and Gretel in 2010, and I cut over to “Wild World.”
The days are long in some ways and other ways, not.