*Bubbles, dozens of them, blown all over the yard. We blew them, danced through them, and caught them on fingers tips, lips, bubble wands. They drifted up above the house, and down among the snapdragons in the garden. They were pink, blue, yellow; large as grapefruits, small as grapes. They held our reflections, spun in the air, and were gone.
*Fresh blueberry pie, with a lattice-top crust, and real whipped cream. The berries were tangy, the crust crunched, and the cream was white against the berries and smooth against my tongue.
*The sound and feeling of an old, empty church building. I had to run in to return a pew Bible I’d accidentally carried outside this evening. The inner doors were all closed, the lights out. It was full of wonderful creakings, a musty, old-woodwork smell, and a secretive feeling, because I was the only one there. I should have liked to stay a while, wander the dim halls and aisles, finger the books, touch notes on the piano. But my family waited to bring me home.
*A walk through dim trees to a twi-lit pond in the cool of the day. (8:30 in central Mississippi in June.) Crickets and frogs chorusing bravely, dust on the path, and the water very still.
*And some grand number of people, of whom to think is to smile. I’ve thought of several today …
How great is Thy goodness,
Which Thou hast stored up for those who fear Thee,
Which Thou hast wrought for those who take refuge in Thee,
Before the sons of men!