Summer Sale

by H. Linn Murphy

It's going to be a quiet summer. My sister is borrowing two of my kids, leaving the grumpiest home with me. (The other three are out of the house.)

I'm kind of freaking.

I told my son it's the only 15th summer he's got. I wanted him to stop spending so much time playing video games. But in reality it's also the only B's 15th summer I've got too. What am I doing with my time? I should be taking my own advice. I've been working on my soon-to-be-published book (SUNRISE OVER SCIPIO), true. But there are other things I've let steal our time away--stupid things. I have to say that Facebook, solitaire, books,

Only without the coffee

and watching movies on TV are getting more of my time than he is.

And now he'll be gone for half of it. True he's doing a much-needed service, but he won't be here. I won't get to enjoy his rapier wit or his giggles or his sweet glances or his willingness to help. He won't be here to hog all the milk or leave his filthy socks on the floor. Why have I sold this half of the summer for ether? I have nothing much to show for it, other than friendships (which of course are fabulous).

I suppose part of it is hooking up with friends and reading about their lives. Being entertained when I can't afford to go to the movies. Part of it is networking for my writing career. And part of it is just plain silliness.

It's like I'm caught in a bog. When it comes time to write, I can write like a freak. But when it comes time to figuring out fun things to do with my son that don't involve going outside into the blazing hot oven, I'm caught stiff-legged. I need to figure out some things to do in the waning hours of our summer together.

My older daughter (who is at work, and thus out of range) is hardly here anyway. I've been saying good-bye to her since she met her boyfriend. I should be just as sad about this summer for her, since it might be the last she'll spend as a single maiden, but I feel I've already sold it too.

Maybe I'll just grab this one single grain of sand from the hourglass and not let it fall. I'll turn off the computer and take him swimming. Or play something with him. Or wash the dishes. Or make something. Or just hold him in my arms and try not to cry like a stinkin' baby.

And maybe it's time to reconnect with the only one that'll be here this summer. I don't know whether it'll be great reforming a bond that has grown crabbed and decrepit, or she'll become even more of a honey badger at heart. I can at least try.