Popsicle Time

Hot weather.

Long days.

Bare feet.

Shorts.

Or pajamas.

We—the kids and I—do something we call, “Front Porch Sitting.”

We sit, as you might expect, on our front step.

We listen to the sounds and watch the sights and breathe the cut grass or the rain as it rolls in.

We feel the breeze and the air and the heat.

And sometimes, they eat popsicles.

Freezer pops.

I remember eating them when I was little.

The cold, sticky mess oozing down my fingers and onto my arm.

I liked the blue ones best.

They can’t decide.

Any popsicle is, after all, a good one.