I'm very fortunate, as I grew up in a manner to which it is easy to become accustomed.
There are homes that are bigger than mine, and there are homes that are smaller, but still and all, the house I live in looks rather nice. My backyard likes to call itself a petite resort and pleads a pretty decent case when it's all green of grass and garden, and pink of posies and sunset. There are several spots to sit in the sun or dine al fresco, either elegantly a deux, or as the case usually is over here, with many, many members of a loud and emphatically Italian family. When it's warm, there are several chaise lounges in several spots, so that you and your bronzing companions can move with the sun throughout an afternoon. And of course, when it gets too warm, one can simply jump in the cool blue of the pool.
Or you can do what I'm doing tonight, because the humidity has finally lifted, and the mystery of being wireless extends to my backyard, leaving me to sit and type and enjoy the light breeze that flows through.
If I look to my right, at the very edge of the vine that's already heavy with green grapes that will turn Concord purple in a month, there hangs - in what I imagine is a most irritating manner to those who can hear them - a pretty set of wind chimes. They're dancing right now, full of air and energy and tinkles that I can't hear.
On some days, that I can't hear them bothers hell out of me. But tonight, while I can sit and watch the weaving shadow of the apricot tree at the far end of my yard, and I can still hear the chatter of people who matter around me, on nights like this, it doesn't matter that I can't hear the chimes.
On nights like this, it's enough to know they're ringing.
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