I see his mother more than I see my own. She holds my hand and gently places a band-aid over my cracked weather-worn hands. They heal, whether with her help or his, and the bruises blend back to beige skin from blue.

It's morning and she slides a pancake from the frying pan onto my plate: an island in maple syrup. Over tea she tells me about her job, and I tell her about mine. Eating disorders and magnets; water quality and caffeine... these things surround both our lives either in the present or the past - only she doesn't realize exactly how intensely. Maybe next time I will tell her, "Why? I can explain why she does that."

And there are my parents at the side of the road. Dad runs alongside the flatbed truck and tries to hold onto my hand: his version of a high-five. It's glorious up on the float among the streamers and balloons. My flute emits silvery sparks in the half-sun of the May Day parade, and my smile too, I'm sure, beams even brighter because they came!

With this weather comes highway driving and porch sitting... how many lakes can we swim in this summer? So far 3 already...