We lay in bed. Baby on my left. BaBa on my right. Two pillows border us affectionately folding us into one another quarters. Nestled in the corners of my ears are the familiar sounds of firefly season. The windows are open. The wind carries the busy work of Michigan robins and the determined tapping of red headed woodpeckers. The low notes swell from a passing motor boat. Occasional fireworks beg us out of bed to see if we can catch a glimpse of the celebrating explosions. The sounds of my youth are passing down to the babies in my arms.
Our days are packed with sun, cousins, water, farm fresh food, and family.
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