Everyday Summer in Ordinary Time

"Help me trash pick this grill and I'll give you a million bucks," I told her.

"Could I just swim in your pool?" she said with tired eyes. I'd sell my soul to swim in your pool.

"My pool is small. The kind just for babies. You could give it a try."

She did. Gangly legs curled up. Wild, yellow hair chopped like an accident. A house key tied loose to a cast aside sneaker.

I felt so guilty. The grill was so heavy. The mountain so steep. We pushed it on bad wheels at 4000 degrees.

But she smiled the way a child does when a neighbor is kind. She sat in the pool, peacock in puddle, with a smile. I wanted her to laugh. I wanted her to think I was neat. So I dumped iced tea on my head and yelled, "that feels GREAT!"

Haven cried but she just laughed. We tossed water all through sunset.

I don't have a pool but I'll give you what I can. Salad bowls brimming with water. As many as you'd like. Fun is easy to understand, young girl. The cusp of life, not so much. The world, your loneliness, your need to be wanted, I could never touch. But a smack on the back from a bowl full of water, a smile, some friendship, I can give you that.

And Gussie in the lake.

His brother Haven too.

And bare feet with blueberries picked fresh. I can give you that.