At this point in the summer there are joyfully bare paths criss-crossing the lawn - a worn circle from skipping the same route around the house, a faint diamond the result of running bases, dead grass under each slate shingle plate.
Most recently the boys have been playing some convoluted version of extreme croquet, with ramps and rocks as obstacles, the rules shifting frequently. Except for the one about mallets not being used as swords, please.
The trampoline net is busted in several places, torn from its suspension and tied up with random ratchet straps and ace bandages, eighty five balls scattered around the base.
The patio table is covered in dirt, having been an all-afternoon terrarium potting station, and the cardboard box collection never ends, none of it recycled before becoming a cat hotel or a rifle pattern first.
The hum of a drill is regular background noise, and we've had conversations about open flames in the shed, about combustible materials and permissible activities.
There are as many books laying around outside as inside, like a yard sale hit by a tornado, half-read and left behind for better offers - the pool, a bike ride, popsicles, a demolition idea.
Parts of the old fence are everywhere, having become balance beams and fort walls, crates for carrying things into the woods. From the ashes of a few old posts, the boys have made primitive face paint and black chalk for new signs to hang on trees.
Sometimes I watch from the kitchen window and wonder if there's a better view in the world.
It's an all-are-welcome posse, a regularly revolving door of friends and neighbors, returning from a year around the world, from vacationing in Sweden, from visiting grandparents and sleep away camps. They are a motley crew, well aware of the world but not weighed down by it.
And it's interesting, the way all of their activity can drop me right into my own heart.
