WE WERE DRIVING INTO THE SUN, two days into a weekend away from work, and putting time into something more rewarding. I’d never noticed the lush blades that covered a generous span of the prairie ground and lush indeed, collectively the most beautiful grass of the summer. The wind settled and all that subsided were tan lines, a few careless hairs on my legs, a half tank of gas. Willow quivered in the backseat drooling, the expiration date on the buns said later this week. I don’t know when I’ll be back.

Then I got the message from you, and it said I could come visit any time soon. That’s just fine, I’d shake a leg in two minutes to be that far away and see a familiar face. I’ve no money, but plenty in fact; can’t spend, won’t borrow, stubborn as shit. You know how it goes.

I’m trying to make the most of it. The appreciation comes slow, like sundown, after the evening’s casting of recollection, and I try not to take myself too seriously. These days are so careless, so numbing and magnificent, that I cannot imagine a year without this kind of light. We all thrive on this — my mother in her garden, father fixing the concrete blocks, and sister with another love. And I — I drive with the roof open, throw the seat back and squint into that beautiful sun and feel that warmth, the best warmth, the best remedy. It’s getting better all the time, you know.

A rock pile in a farmer’s field reminds me of a day on the road with my grandfather, and searching for arrowheads amidst every mound under the midsummer sun. That day was just like today, save different motions and faces, but today was not taken for granted; I know better.

But where, in a summer, has time slipped?