They wear pajamas for clothes when the summer grows thick. They march, ragtag soldiers, in the shape of a heart in the yard. I watch from the window, sipping coffee and dreaming words.
Sometimes we don’t leave the house for days, except for the patch of grass out back and the porch swing, fans whirring violently overhead.
Sometimes we eat spoons of peanut butter and fist fulls of cereal for lunch, or I crack open an egg if I can be bothered.
Sometimes my hair is tied up in Olive Oyl knots and I wander barefoot down the road.
The line between insane and summer with kids is thin, friends, and I tiptoe quiet on both sides.