The little boys and I are on the front porch. We're swinging, scrunched in tight. Zay is wearing sunglasses with gray sharks on the sides. And we're all peering down the road.
There's a rumble in the distance.
"I guess it's a red truck," Gabriel says. Soon a black SUV passes by.
"My turn," says Sam. "The next one will be a tan van."
"A tan van?" Zay giggles.
It's a game we play. We sit. And watch. And wait. When we hear a vehicle coming, we guess. We keep "air count", tally scratches carved in the breeze for best guesses.
A blue pick-up whizzes past.
"Hmmm," says Zay. "The next one will be....."
We all wait to hear what he says. But we know it doesn't really matter. What matters is that we're together, on the swing, pressed in tight. There's time to breathe. To laugh. Time for ice cream to fall in slow, sweet drips down summer-brown arms. There's time to hear the birds. And the creak of the old wicker swing. Time for the sun to fall on our laps and for our hands to be still.
"Blue," Zay says. "A blue car."
We hear a deep rumble and we all look down the road.
It's an eighteen wheeler.
But it doesn't really matter.
Doesn't matter at all.
Thank you, God, for the blessing of quiet times.