When my children are grown and they think of their childhoods, I hope they remember our summer Sundays. I hope they remember going down to the farmer’s market and fighting over who gets to pick their chocolate croissant first out of the paper bag and sitting on the grass and eating it.
And then running to the tree and climbing up there and playing whatever the game of the week is with whichever friends were there, new and old. They might remember the view I’ve never seen, looking back over from the elevated perspective of the swaying branches at the little grassy slope where all the parents sit and chat and throw a glance in their direction every now and then. (Nobody has fallen out of the tree yet, to our knowledge.)
I hope they remember looking for the cars coming and then crossing over to the market to get a drink from the orange cooler the nice market people keep there, with the little waxed paper cups, sometimes the first solo mission while a parent hovers behind, watching to make sure you don’t go astray among the lines for crepes and iced coffee or between the other stalls of strawberries and kale and handmade soaps and tomato plants.
And I hope I remember too. I don’t see how I could forget. But then, I always say that.
Such a lovely post brings to mind my own childhood memories of sunshine and spending long days in the garden.
That so sweet. And the nicest thing about writing a blog is that you have all those memories immortalised (is that even a word?!) xx
Yes, it is. And yes it is.