Summer is bright colored flip-flops, shorts and tees, swinging hammocks, and ice cold tea. Nothing else matters when you find yourself encased in a cotton hammock freely swinging under a canopy of trees. Come July and August, the south swelters. Perspiration rolls down your neck as you eagerly reach for an ice cold drink. Pressing it against your forehead, you sigh with pleasure. Next, you press it against your mouth, allowing it to linger for but a second before taking a gulp. The heat makes you feel lazy and reminiscent of times when air condition didn't exist and the only breeze you felt was the one carried on the wind...
******
"Ah. That's good. Want a sip hun," I ask.
"Yeah, thanks. Um, not bad! Would you like the radio on?"
"Sure, sounds great. Can we get Sirius on your hand held?"
"No, we'll have to deal with the local station 102.5."
"That's fine. Anything will do."
Reaching for the radio, Russ tunes in the station and Glenn Frey's voice leaps from the speakers singing Hotel California. I relax against the pillow reaching for Russ' hand and pull him back against me.
"I love that song. Can you believe we danced to that almost 35 years ago. Unbelievable. Where has the time gone?"
"Don't know," he says. "I ask myself the same question each morning when I look in the mirror and see an old man staring back."
"You're not old. Just a little broken," I say giggling. "But that's your fault, jumping out of perfectly good airplanes and all that other nonsense. And look at you, the only gray you've got is in your beard. Mine covers my entire head."
"I think it's sexy," he says kissing the top of my head. "Gray hair is a crown of glory."
"You can have the crown; I'm keeping my out-of-the-box red!"
Comfortable in Russ' arms, I close my eyes and hum along with the radio.
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