It’s overcast and drizzling today. It’s a perfect August rainy day. I have the window blinds pulled up to let in the most light—that soft, perfect light diffused through thick clouds. The grass is so green. There’s a single day lily gathering rain in its upturned blossom. The willow tree down the street is waving is long branches, which have been given a rather unfortunate severe haircut.
I hear the kids’ voices, occasionally see a little blond or light brown head bobbing by the window. They’re questing through the garden, setting up an imaginary boat in the top of the fort. They notice most of the same things I do: little birds at the feeder, raindrop adorned cobwebs here and there in the shrubs, etc. But I see the big picture, too.
They’re making their memories here, the ones that will induce nostalgia and melancholy in years to come. That tree, that flower, attracts the butterfly that attracts the children with their nets. That butterfly pauses long enough on the ground once the net is lifted for a small finger to touch its fuzzy body, a moment that just might last forever in someone’s unfurling mind. If nothing else it’ll be there in the background, one of the many impressionist brushstrokes that, put together, create a childhood.