Behind old brick, trellised and ivy-softened, the sound of my children, pointless and idle at play. Their thin voices diluted with watery laughter, they revel in a new insect or a clump of dirt.
They wrestle in the shallow pool, my children and the neighbor's daughter, sunblocked arms and legs slide greasily against each other, a three-headed suburban octopus turning slowly pink in a shallow grassy ocean.
My son, shirtless and dirty, creates a shallow muddy lake in the flower bed. The girl makes people from old card and tissue, props them in the sodden earth. They are soon dirt-spattered and wet. The children spray each other by turns, shrieking, cold water on warm skin.
A bee hovers near my ear, heavy-buzzing and languid in the heat. Golden drops of dappled sunshine cling dewily to the lawn. A leaf falls, a reminder of impermanence. The sun glides inexorably overhead. The young inevitably age. Another family, another spring. The endless river flows endlessly, but the wall remains.
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