summer

Summer and the baby smells like grass and bananas, and the sidewalks are hot and the playground waits under the trees, we hear it before we see it clearly: shrieks and peals of laughter and flashes of color between the leaves. She flaps her arms and starts singing the moment she knows we're close. Summer and the neighbors' front garden is full of black-eyed susans and tiger lilies and allium and bleeding heart pushed through the gate. And the skies have been blue and the air has been fresh, and last night fat splats of rain hit the windowpanes and the baby slept straight through it. She smells like rain and pancakes and shampoo. She crawls and stands and laughs and grabs and gets tired and rests her head on our shoulders and sucks her thumb and then is off again reaching for things on shelves and eating books and crinkling paper and watching us always. In sleep she looks both like she did brand new and like she will as the little girl she is becoming, so much faster than I expected.