The wet air is drifting through the screens of the open windows and taking my mind away with it.
I close my eyes to imagine the mud squishing between my toes like it did on the banks of the river when I was a child. I love the way the cool, soft mud felt on pavement burned summer feet when pleasure was all I knew.
My brother and I, inseparable as we were, would make our way down to the river to start the day’s adventure to the edge of the scary man’s property where the clay deposits lie. Hours would roll by there like the gentle gurgle of the water over the rocks. To be caked with clay was the trophy of the work we had put into that day’s creations of tiny vases and pots that we brought home with beaming faces. Nothing was ever ugly or imperfect in our eyes.
Back at the house, we would hose off in the yard and hang off the porch to snack on the watermelon as the pink juice dripped down our chins and arms into the grass below–the reward for a long day of creativity. After dinner, as the sun went down, our old sippy cups doubled as lightning bug traps as we lept around the dewy lawn after them.
Happy memories from the river run through my mind to take me away for a moment from my desk and the work in front of me to the reed-lined wonderland of my youth.