The Longest Day, at Home

4:37 a.m.

The kitchen clock reads 4:37 a.m., and the window over the sink is already grey. I do not turn on the overhead light. I fill the kettle and set it on the burner, then stand at the back door in my socks. The grass is wet. The bird tape on the strawberry netting is a line of pale flags, not moving. The neighbor's porch light is off. The floorboards are cold. I stand at the screen door a moment and then close it. A single bird starts in the lilac, then another. The kettle clicks off. I pour the water over a tea bag and sit at the table where a stack of mail sits. The clock ticks. The steam rises straight off the mug.

6:10 a.m.

At 6:10 the children come down in the same clothes they slept in. I am in the garden, kneeling at the tomato plants, pulling purslane out of the row. The peas are up to my hip, and the pea fence throws a long shadow across the soil. The ground is damp, and the purslane comes out in one long string. The tomato plants are tied to their stakes with strips of cloth. The hose lies in a coil by the faucet. My daughter asks if she can eat strawberries, and I say the ones on the south side are ready. She squats and picks them with her thumb and forefinger, then brings me one in her open palm, warm from the sun. I finish the row, stand up, and dust my hands on my jeans. The soil on my knuckles is cool and dark.

8:45 a.m.

At 8:45 the porch is in sun and the laundry is on the line. I carry out the last basket, sheets from the beds, a row of socks, the cloth napkins. The line sags in the middle under the wet cotton. The sheets hang and then move a little. The children are at the end of the driveway, taking turns riding a bicycle to the mailbox and back. The bicycle bell rings once, then again. Inside, the dish rack holds the plates and cups. I pin the last napkin, then stand at the bottom of the yard and look at the garden. The squash leaves are dusty and wide. A crow lands on the fence and leaves when I shift my weight. A row of wooden clothespins hangs from the line.

11:20 a.m.

At 11:20 the house is shut against the heat. The window fan runs in the kitchen, pulling air across the table. The south curtains are half drawn. My son is asleep on the living room rug, one arm over his face. My daughter is drawing at the table, pressing a blue crayon hard enough that the paper is shiny. I am rinsing the strawberries in a blue enamel colander. The first ones go into a bowl, the rest into a jar in the fridge; the jar lid lies on the counter beside it. The fan rattles a little at one corner. I drink the water slowly. Two small rounds of ice sit at the bottom of my glass.

2:05 p.m.

At 2:05 the curtains are closed on the west windows. The old dog lies in the hallway where the floor is coolest; his tail thumps once. I am at the kitchen table with my feet on the opposite chair, reading a book of essays. The children are quiet: one is drawing, one is asleep. The fan is silent. A fly buzzes against the screen on the east window. A truck passes on the road, and the sound trails off. The light under the curtains is yellow. The glass at my elbow is wet with condensation. The pages of the book are warm to the touch.

5:30 p.m.

At 5:30 we carry the supper table out to the grass. It is a card table we keep behind the door, and its fourth leg does not touch the grass; it shifts when my son sets his plate down. I set it under the lilac, where the sun has already left the ground. Supper is bread, radishes, salted butter, a bowl of the berries, and iced tea. The children set their own places without being asked. The forks are too far apart and the cups are wrong, and I do not fix them. The pitcher sweats a dark circle onto the cloth. The light is long through the yard. The lilac leaves throw small shadows on the checkered cloth.

8:10 p.m.

At 8:10 the children are in pajamas and the sun is still above the trees. I send them up to bed; they go without arguing. I follow them into the room and read them a short book from the shelf. The window is open, and the air moves the curtain. The air smells of cut grass. My daughter points past the curtain. My son is already asleep. I pull the sheet up over his shoulder. My daughter lies down, facing the window. The lamplight from the hall reaches across the floor to the foot of the bed. I stand in the doorway. The door of their room stands open three inches.

9:40 p.m.

At 9:40 the west window is still bright. I stand in the garden barefoot; the grass is cool now. The row of peas, the strawberry nets, the watering can tipped against the step are all turning grey. The pea flowers are closed. The sky is the color of a blue bowl. The swallows are working low over the grass. The bird tape on the strawberry netting is the only pale thing left. The house is dark behind me, and one window upstairs is lit. I go inside and rinse the colander and leave it upside down in the rack. The counters are dry except for one wet ring. The kitchen clock has a hairline crack across its face, and its second hand moves.