a hymn for the haze

On a scale of one to psychopath, we may have been super crazy to take the boys downtown.
The new playground was almost too hot to touch. And the fountain park was really crowded, a rainbow of humanity gathered to cool off, packed like berries in a jar of jam.

We managed to find a shady spot for our picnic, and while one of us watched Hank like a hawk, the other doled out food. The boys each ate all of the things we packed for them, cold cut sandwiches on bagels, nectarines and fig newtons and snap peas and strawberries. And then they pretty much ate all of the salad intended for us, picking out cheddar cheese cubes and almond slivers and pear slices, leaving only a few lonely leaves of kale.

A lady observed us trying to coordinate our own little slice of chaos: shoes off, sunscreen on, food in mouths, boundary reminders. At one point she came over to say something along the lines of Oh, you have three boys! They're so handsome! Are you going to try for a girl?! It's such a risk...

Once, at the fountains a few years ago, I lost sight of Tucker for a moment. I mean, it felt like an eternity, time enough for a future without him to flash forward. The fountains had a mist feature, and when the program switched all of the streams to vapor, I couldn't find Tucker in the fog. I located him nearly a lifetime later, running through a row of rose bushes nearby. I hadn't even been looking in the right place.
The next day I wrote a letter to the city parks department explaining the risk, and requesting they reconsider the mist.

I did not address the stranger's curiosity on Sunday. We had already determined not to let the sun violate our outing, so neither would her wondering. We did have a daughter, but we lost her, I thought, nodding vaguely. About that time Hank began to run, which felt like the best news the earth could deliver -- sidetracking me with gratitude for who is right here, a child demanding just enough attention to let the question, and happy memories of her, hang in the air.