It was mid‑March, and the rays hit the back of my neck like they had a personal vendetta. They were burning. I couldn’t understand why it was so hot so early in the year. The weatherman said today would be one of the hottest March days in recorded history — a high of 110 degrees.
The sun was shining like she was trying to get revenge.
She blamed us for her almost 70‑day hiatus.
She came out of lockdown with her guns blazing.
I melted inside thinking about how hot it would be. All I wanted to do was go inside and soak up every ounce of air conditioning. My kids, however, had a different agenda. They wanted to stay outside and soak in all the heat like little lizards on a rock.
It was so hot, sweat stopped dripping from my body — it turned to dust.
My skin became hot to the touch.
I was sure I was going to shrivel up like a raisin and explode into tiny particles.
My husband and I came up with creative ways to keep ourselves from disintegrating into oblivion. We went for a swim and played every pool game we could think of — Marco Polo, volleyball, races. When the kids got bored, we made a slip‑and‑slide with obstacles like we were training for the Olympics.
After that came a water‑hose fight, a sprinkler run, and a balloon battle that left the yard looking like a rainbow exploded.
Eventually, our sunshine turned to dusk.
The full moon danced in the sky as the stars sparkled in the distance.
I looked over at my little one, who suddenly looked sad.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He sighed and said the cutest thing:
“The sun had to go to bed. When will he come out and play with us again?”
By the end of the night, I was exhausted and delirious. I was having glorious dreams of my bed — firm, just how I like it, with a dash of softness from the mattress topper. My pillows were calling my name, and I was ready to answer the call.
I could see my bed. It was within reach.
I couldn’t wait to put on my pjs and my favorite fuzzy slippers.
And after a day like that, I slept like the sun had personally tucked me in.
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