seven sudden days.

One. A bed that threatened to fall under the weight of our bodies, heavy with laughter.

Two. Trees tickled pink with blossoms, a yellow songbird, and a twirling white dress.

Three. A table prayer said with the wisdom of a tongue many stories old.

Four. A row of stores bathed in sunlight, a pair of borrowed too-big pajamas and three storybooks read aloud, under the covers.

Five. Two teensy hands and feet dancing.

Six. Raw skin from one-too-many hours of sun and a line of laundry hung out to dry.

Seven. Symmetrical orchards of peach, cherry and grape.

Then.
A 2:30 a.m. wake-up call.
Riding through silent highways painted with darkness.
A plane flight back to the start.