The girls to whom I gifted the chalk yesterday did indeed end up drawing in several places around the creek. It’s mostly obliterated now by the bikes and feet that traversed it in the interim. That’s okay. Not just because chalk is a temporary method of artwork. Rather, glimmers (or lemon moments as I call them), they are transitory, fleeting, and trapped in the amber of memory. I hope when they grow older they remember their loving grandfather who brought them to places like this. And that they do the same for anyone who follows them.

Perhaps due to the August heat, I remembered my grandpa for a bit as the hot surfaces attempted to burn the bottoms of my feet. Grandpa walked with me from the little township of Rich to a commensurate community named Monroe. A long stretch of flat highway, flanked by thousands of acres of crops. Dragonflies buzzing, and the sound of my grandpa’s voice. His voice was mostly silent and though I trick myself into believing I can sometimes remember its resonance in my dreams, that’s probably nostalgic wishful thinking.

The water is cool today, though not as chilly as yesterday. There are no little souls frolicking in the water. None of which thwarted my enjoyment of the moment.

Love, X
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