If time were a mansion, the first day of summer would be a covered, wraparound front porch.
The place in the house to take in the sunset and golden-hour magic; to sit in a rocking chair and hear the sounds of crickets and cicadas, laughing children and the neighbor's sprinklers.
The place where safety could mingle with danger and a rollicking thunderstorm could be seen and heard up close, wind gusts carrying in sheets of rain just moist enough to be thrilling.
The place where, at dawn, the piercing rays of first light make the steam from a coffee mug look like ritual incense, and the birdsong a soundtrack for matins prayer.
The place where constant coming and going, possibility upon possibility, charges the air with the electricity of a million fireflies.
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If time were a mansion, the mid-summer solstice would be an al fresco dining patio, with a view of some sublime horizon.
The place in the house where all gather to taste and see the goodness of God, enjoying creation's bounty on the longest day of the year.
The place where, after a meal, one could retire to a hammock and nap to the faint sound of crashing waves.
The place where kids could roam freely in the adjacent back yard and surrounding woods, returning like homing pigeons on the herald of "dinnertime!"
The place where, at night, a distant dock's green light could be seen blinking across the bay.
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If time were a mansion, the last day of summer would be a grand-yet-cozy hearth room.
The place in the house to take off your sandy shoes, kick up your feet, and settle in for the closing of the day.
The place where bookshelves and walls are adorned with photographs, trinkets, and scrapbooks of memories preserved.
The place of transition where the exhausting hubbub of the day prepares for the calmer season of nocturnal repose.
The place where, one by one, family members retire to their places of rest, until the last is left to turn off the TV, shut the blinds, lock the doors, and put out the fire.