The weather man.
I am writing this on the back deck as the kids dance in the grass to the Moana soundtrack on repeat (and repeat). There were plenty of April showers this year, and May showers to boot. However in an unseasonable act the sun has finally gently dried the morning dew and convinced the birds to sing their dayspring tunes.
A Midwestern summer plays hard to get, until it doesn’t.
And so: S’mores. They are the inaugural summer treat after all. And although we’ve had no room in the schedule for camping just yet, it is time to welcome summer in the appropriate fashion. To invite it to sit with us around a patio dinner, complete with paper plates, dinner in three minutes from the grill, and dessert in half that time.
Midwestern summers are the eternal season of the region. They arrive in a flash, like a lightning bug spark, sudden. They’re full of sunburned shoulders, hosting company, adventures outside your zipcode, festivals all over town. They linger, like new lovers tarry over the last dregs of wine at dinner, hoping to make the moment last forever and keep the ache of inevitable separation at bay.
It’s all longingly perfect. It’s all painfully temporary.
Soon there will be concerts in the park, backyard BBQ’s, pool parties, and long hikes. But in this moment, there are S’mores. There is a quiet breeze carrying our laughter, elongated toddler shadows chasing the setting sun.
Welcome summer indeed.