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.