A melancholic feeling is weighing on me today, on the first of July. As if this summer was slipping through my fingers, and nothing of it was left in my hands. "Where did this summer go?" I'm asking myself this morning, tired from too little sleep, the house morning-quiet except for the continuous sound of a child coughing and coughing away, and the heavy breathing of a boy with a high fever. We have sickness in the family, and sickness in summertime, on the first of July, never seems quite right. The sky doesn't feel quite right either today, as big clouds move across it, leaving only the tiniest scraps of blue sky here and there, and too little space - again - for the sun to filter through and drench the garden, which is looking anemic these days, even though it's summertime, the first of July.
"Where is summer going?" I'm now asking myself this morning, tired from too little sleep and too many thoughts. But then one special thought surfaces, and on this cloudy, sickness-filled first of July, and I'm slowly feeling warmed up by the memory of a beautiful weekend I just spent away with my big boy, on a trip together for two days, something that in the past should have happen more often than it has - these one child-one parent spells of time away - but that did just happen this weekend, and I have that, that precious time with my boy, firmly in my hands. And nothing can take it away from me.