Dang, it’s hot tonight, like 88° at 10:30 and no air’s movin’ hot. Hot like Spanish moss in the cypress swamp hot. Hot like ripe tomatoes in the sun hot.

The night reminds me of others, when we could see Boötes and Ursa Major from one bedroom window, and Cassiopea and Cepheus from the other. When the upstairs got too stifling, we’d slip out the screen door to the glider on the porch and Daddy would ask me who the president was and I would proudly answer, “Jimmy Carter.” The swimming pool rippled under its blue cover as another June bug hit the surface. You could practically hear the zucchinis stretching their green skins in the darkness. In the morning, we’d find one, two feet long, that must have escaped our notice under a leaf for weeks. Or only a humid night or two.

The cicadas ceased their electric buzz when the wind started to stir the dust under the swing set. Distant rumbling came closer and dime-sized splatters appeared on the picnic table. They spread out, became quarter-sized, grew together. We were safe on our square of Astroturf beneath the green corrugated roof, our backs to the west, watching the thunderstorm blow by us, able to see it only when it was past us, receding into someone else’s future to our east.