When Robin was alive, we would plan our summer in May.

Picnics, garden parties, teas, family celebrations, Midsummer’s extravaganza’s-

we would plot, plan and scheme, bouncing ideas and themes off of each other and fill notebooks with recipes and sketches of decorations. 

And when we weren’t planning a happening we found happenings to attend.

Our children played down at the creek, digging up the clay, floating down lazily in makeshift boats, fishing or searching for crayfish.  They were muddy and wet and so intense about their occupation.  And then they would rinse off and spend hours in the pool- diving down deep to retrieve coins on the bottom or trying to dunk each other- sometimes just floating on innertubes and looking up at the clouds and the trees overhead.

It now seems like a time of bliss. 

Not that life is unhappy now- only somehow- the magic has diminished. 

I remember my own childhood with the same hazy happiness- as a time of wonder and magical possibilities lying just around the corner.  All we had to do was go forward and there was adventure and friendship- parties that seemed to fall into place without much worry or hassle.

When Robin died, I lost my way.  I couldn’t seem to find the paths that led to joy- the lovely lanes of summer were closed to me- and I never did get back to the magical days I had once known and loved.

I became a grown-up.  And growing up came from deep sorrow and loss.

Because my playmate was gone- one of the last conversations we had was about we really weren’t done playing, yet.  That was our greatest excuse to our mother when she wanted us to come in at dusk-” Mommy!  We aren’t done playing yet!”

When it was time for bed- “We aren’t done playing yet!”

When she had jobs for us to do-“But we aren’t done playing yet!”

But when Robin died, the playing stopped.

I still plan parties and picnic and have teas.

Still have notebooks of  recipes-

just lost the magic.