This afternoon on my walk home from work, it was a perfect temperature, and I started thinking about indian summers in Portland in the backyard of our red house. I thought about how I used to sit in the crook of the mimosa tree, pretending it was a big tree-creature, imagining it walking me around in fantasyland while providing me all the mottled shade that those tiny little mimosa leaves can muster. And when I got uncomfortable sitting in the hard tree, I'd go lay in the little dip in the lawn close to the back flower bed where the spent tulips were folded and tied and ready for next spring. And I'd look up in the sky and wait until my eyes were adjusted to the brightness, and I'd look at the dark edges of the douglas firs that bordered my vision and I'd look at the tiny airplanes slowly creeping across the sky, with the sun glinting off them. I'd let the grass cool me off, and then after dinner I'd go back out and let the evening cool me off. That's one of my favorite parts of summertime - the smell of the mimosa flowers and the grass and the sun-warmed blueberries and the charcoal from some far-off barbecue.
And then at night I would stay awake, laying in bed in the dark until the attic fan turned off, resting a wet washcloth on my stomach to cool down, listening to the next-door neighbors talking on their patio and their bug-zapper zapping bugs every once in awhile.