One summer, when they were very young, their father pulled a chair out into the front yard and took their pictures. This was the same evening that he picked up a new over-sized ball that their mother had bought them at Walmart earlier in the day and he chased them around the grass in front of their house bouncing the ball off of their foreheads while they rolled and tumbled exhausted and laughing in the warm evening.
And the summer rushed on with them, hand in hand like an old friend. Three children, their father and mother and summer laying with them on the ground. A perfect day. A perfect season of life. A perfect moment of summer. And then summer’s mother called her home one night. A soft voice echoing down the street, distant, gentle, but impossible to ignore. They quietly waved their hands as summer ran home, disappearing over a hill into a lazy pink sunset.
The next day they tore through closets and boxes searching for light jackets with metal snaps and warm caps and gloves, and they lined up eagerly along the windows and watched expectantly for Fall to come visit.