I’m currently in the middle of a long book and a big canvas. My summer will never end.

I can’t say that kindergarten was extremely stressful. (But for the part when Mrs. Strand left to give birth and was replaced with Mrs. Podolski.) Still, I remember that first day of actual summer vacation. Rising without the alarm clock, I opened the front door and stepped barefooted onto the dewy grass. Hands on hips I surveyed the length of yards on Van Dyke Road, and shook my head slowly, like I had just finished my first board meeting and was now a cog in complete agreement, spinning in the wheel of my much deserved vacation. My damp feet made tracks back to the breakfast table. And I was saved.

This feeling, to be within, is nearest, I think, to love. Busied by joy, and curiosity, unbothered by time or other worldly constraints. It is the book’s character that remains long after the last page is turned. It is the painting that breathes as you pass in the hallway. It is the summer that doesn’t end. 

I will never finish loving you.