one week at the golden hour

A week in Virginia afforded me more time to notice things

the way coins sound on a wooden farm table when everyone ponies up for the next hand of Liverpool

how floating in saltwater can suck most of the tension straight out of your shoulders

the way the boys will spend hours grabbing at fish and fleas and crabs, then run to show off every catch

how many times a single swimming child can actually say Watch me! in a five minute period

the way an egg sandwich tastes when it's delivered to your beach chair

the way joy radiates, its tentacles spread like a hungry octopus, when a family gathers

how a young man's interpretation of venomous heightens when a real, live cottonmouth shows up on the path

the way faces glow in the oven light, watching plastic art shrivel and shrink

the way sand on the floor and lemonade drips on the counter don't hit the same nerve as they can at home

all the diving toys, the torpedos and rings, settled on the bottom of the pool after sunset

a father's energy dragging the wagon across the sand, piled high with tents and chairs and coolers and toys, back and forth and back again

how lightning cracks over the ocean, in an enormous sky

the bright yellow bucket, cradling a constant rotation of temporarily captive creatures

the wetness of a happy grandparent's eyes

the way jumping into the pool from the side is universally appealing to toddlers, and universally exhausting for their grown ups

how the soft, warm light feels as the sun begins to disappear