This morning I woke up to the chill of air conditioning and the laughter from little, unseen voices. My first thought: I can’t wait to call my grandma and tell her about this. The second: it’s time for heirloom tomato and onion sandwiches, only on crappy white bread (gluten free of course). Because grandpa liked raw onion on his sandwiches; he’d eat the same every day. Two slices of multigrain bread, white onion, orange cheese. This was preceded by a huge salad with broccoli, more onion, naturally, radishes and lettuce. All to the tune of “The Price is Right.”
The other night we drank bourbon and decided our house would be the one where the holidays were held. Where the rooms were filled with overnight guests, with cocktails – and sherry – before Christmas lunch. Where the turkey at Thanksgiving was stuffed and no one worried whether or not it was juicy, because there would be gravy anyway. Where maybe people forgot to eat, and drank too much, and finished the pie and washed the dishes; where there was a little chaos and a lot of laughter, a few arguments and memories.
It’s almost time to put the air conditioner in; the glasses of seltzer, or soda water or whatever it’s called here, are beading and sweating. The heat is not oppressive, is just is, and we sweat to it on our own way, that fan still blowing, gently, cooling skin. A stick of incense reminds you of camping. It provides the warm firey smell that I feel but can’t create because that’s just not legal here and the management company didn’t mow the grass yet. I don’t know if they ever will.

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