From the hammock, I stare up at the evening sky through the branches of the tree above.
In the soft light of our room, I light my newest candle and climb into bed to read.
I read the title story from a collection of short stories. First to myself, then later on to Joey. I think about it all week and decide I love it wholeheartedly.
We eat ice cream while children hula hoop and the “quirky crooner-sounds of yesteryear” play in the background.
After yoga, I walk to my car, up a quiet street with beautiful houses and legitimately hear someone playing the saxophone.
Right before bed, I play Joey a Gregory Alan Isakov song and then he plays me one by Amos Lee.