It's summer. I want everything.
I want ten children and a screen door that bangs. I want white sheets on the clothesline, and lots of bare feet in the kitchen where glasses with lemons leave puddles on the countertop. I want to hear my children yell and watch their little bodies dive and fall and knot together, all knees and bums and pink until I must stop whatever it is I am stirring and untangle them; leaving them to giggles and popsicles and sticky drips on the dog. I want to watch the seasons pass my window, for ten minutes every Monday, while my hands punch the same dough my grandmother still makes and my house smells yeasty and wholesome like hers. I want long hot days and a garden, with peas that need shelled one by one and the sound of them dropping in a bucket. I want the sun to shine past bedtime and keep us all awake and reading Charlotte's Web on the creaking porch swing. I want sandy high-fives stuck to the windows, and weedy flower beds and a worn-out welcome mat. I want a giant oak tree. I want to smell like sunscreen and have tanlines in weird places. I want to line-up canning jars like a Victory Parade all across the kitchen. I want to pick my own berries and find a thousand ways to use up zucchini and tomatoes. I want to dance in the rain and make lemonade and stop and smell the roses. It's summer. I want everything.