Summer 2022

We are sitting in the park, in the grass under a big tree’s shade. [Redacted] is lying down and he is my table to journal on. He says it is an oak tree. I have no reason to question this. We can still hear the freeway a bit, but the leaves are rustling in this little bit of wind. To me it almost sounds like bells or wind chimes. [Redacted] thinks it sounds like rice being poured into a glass jar, or a bug audience in uproar. Temp is perfect, almost like nothing, but then the wind is a sweet, cool kiss on the skin. Our clothes rustle in it, too. There are people around but it doesn’t feel like it. An ice cream truck drives by and a family emerges off the trailhead, but it still feels like just us two. Like it’s been just us two in the grass forever.