Giggles and random chatter came from the shady coolness under the cracked plastic lawn table, where Cameron had tipped chairs around to make a private ‘house’. Up through the hole in the middle of the table he raised the orange flag pilfered from his MEC bike trailer, and his shout, “main sail is up,” told me that his house had become a boat instead.
Sails set, he scrambled out from under the table, to grab a wedge of pizza. One of his favourites, with cheese, tomato, and broccoli. Cameron glanced over his shoulder to where I was swinging in the hammock, and he picked a second piece before trotting over to my side. “Here you go,” he said, thrusting them both at me to hold as he climbed in.
Who says you have to share dinner at the table? A hammock did just fine.
We swung gently under the trees, nascent plums crowding on the branches of one, green and fuzzy. Odd little beginnings of pears clung to the mossy branches of the other; though dozens drop each day I suspect we’ll still have a pretty good harvest. A spider’s web shone now and then in the late sunshine between the hammock and a tree, stretching and relaxing with our movements, while the poor little critter seemed to be holding on for dear life in the middle. Beneath us a bee buzzed from clover to buttercup.
We talked about daycare, and busses, and boats and airplanes. He tumbled down and ran to grab another two pieces, then hurried back. We talked about Samuel’s upcoming birthday party next door, and how it might rain next week.
“You’re my Mama,” Cameron said, starting a pattern that seems to be reassuring to him.
“Yes, I’m your Mama,” I answered, just like I do several times a day. “And you’re my Cameron.”