The cherries are really not ripe yet, but I can't help eating them. They are tangy and small, bright with almost-cherry flavor. There are so many that even after we've eaten our fill and the neighbors have been over with their ladder and all our friends are begging us to stop giving them cherries, the birds will still get half. I don't really know what to do with sweet cherries, except to eat them and eat them and keep eating them, fresh and straight from the tree, for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and in between. Which seems fine, really.
There is much to do, so many things to knit and sew and crochet, but this is what we are doing. I eat cherries, spitting the pits off the porch into the grass, and she watches birds through half an eyelid, in between snores.
This blankety-blanket grows in spite of myself, because it is as plain as it comes. I know I keep saying this, but dang. This is the knitting for me. There is no wondering whether it will fit and flatter and if I will ever wear it and do I even have anything to wear it with and what makes me think I even need another pullover anyway...no. None of that! Just back and forth, sitting in the sun, eating still-tart cherries and thinking about life, and about how the boy--my Boy--has turned TWENTY now, and is really not a boy anymore, and what a wonderful, daring, clever, adventuresome, hilarious, grown-up man he is now. But I remember when he was no bigger than a football; a tiny, red-faced gnome with tremendous lungs, snuggled up sleeping in a sling like a caterpillar in a leaf. Now, he goes off to work in the morning wearing a jacket and tie. My boy, still.