I ran across the dusty, gravel-covered yard towards the house, my long strides hastening the approach. I grabbed the old, wooden banister and hopped up onto the first of three narrow steps. The boards creaked, weary from the countless feet that have trod over them before me. I bounded across the weather-worn porch, hesitating only briefly to peer through the screened door, at the activity inside the house. Crossing the porch, I dropped with a sigh onto the wooden swing. Suspended from the roof by two rusting metal chains, the swing swayed from side to side as I relaxed against it. Almost without thinking, I began to push my feet ahead along the porch, then skip them back, righting the swing’s drift. After a few minutes, I lifted my feet onto the swing as the motion continued. I gazed aimlessly before me. This is happiness. This is summer.
It was a slow afternoon at the tiny Seattle coffee shop. As I opened the door, a group of three school-aged boys ran in front of me. Each of the boys was lugging an overloaded backpack with them. They obviously had just left the private school a couple of blocks down the street. As I perused the menu, the three boys placed their orders, all the while joking with one another. The first two each requested a pastry and a glass of water. The third boy studied the menu a bit longer before deciding. “Umm. . . I’d like a tall espresso, double shot, please.” The cashier giggled a bit, thinking that her young customer was just repeating something he had heard adults order. After a few seconds, she jokingly said to him, “Alright. . . whatever.” Noticing that the boy seemed serious, she looked puzzled. Then, sh...
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