Sunflowers under the birdfeeder, 15 blueberries and another tomato. I got carried away into the yard… starting with a snip here and a weed there to trimming all the shrubbery until I was dripping with sweat.

It’s hot and cloudy and humid. I’m hoping for storms tonight, but the odds are against it.

Jenny made crepes to go with the berries I picked, blue-, black- and rasp-, and I whipped a little cream, and it was wonderful. Crepes have been my favorite meal for as long as I can remember, especially the way my mother used to make them, with cinnamon sugar and canned peaches. It’s not exactly a meal to most people, but it’s ambrosia to me – hot and crisp and soft and sweet, poured and cooked one at a time, each one that I ate just for me.

After the beach I notice the smell of fresh water, even from the tap – clean and bright. It really does smell “fresh.” The ocean smells good, too, but it’s different – not fresh, but, well, experienced. It’s water with a history, that’s known great power, and great tragedies – water that’s seen the world.

Fresh water is young and small and lively, happy to be released from the sky or freed from deep underground. It dances in my glass. It bounces over my face. With nothing to hide, it washes me clean.