Taking Stock.

What to know: That it's the same temperature inside the house as out, that we ride warmish days for the next few, that Thursday brings something that looks a lot like ninety. That the Sunday Roast was for the first time this year superceded by a larger roast, a thrown-together cookout, three families, kids, beers in cans, tears and games, this backlit suburban life we choose and choose and choose. Yates, Cheever, Carver:  They weren't wrong, necessarily. But here we are, and on purpose.

Some species of moth got uncocooned this week. Black with white and orange spots. We watched them mating, frantic, while we ate. While the kids chased their own lone frantic circles.

The mint is in. Has been. Is holding on.

There are junebugs. There's one, anyway, on the back kitchen window.

And we aim for May. For summer. For earnest days of heat-slowed oblivion, of hanging on, the novelty of it running almost to the Fourth of July, and then the long, long summer haul afterwards, back towards school, but also to fire, to sleet, to sleeves. Look at me. The tomatoes aren't even in the ground and this is what I'm after. We haven't even bought basil. Set a squash in the ground. Searched the back garden for oregano.

It's an odder fear I have this year—of summer, of August, of stillness, of flat hot days sliding one to the next. Maybe it's the kid. Maybe it's the two gallons of primer I've got out back. I'm ready, finally, to paint the shed. To do what I said I'd do. Prime it white to paint it white. May. May is coming. I wrote so long and so many times about April being March that this feels like it's snuck up on me. Like I maybe missed it, or skimmed over it. Another month. Here we go. Again.

Earnest talk tonight about whether a cooler of beer could be further cooled by the addition of rock salt to the ice. There seemed to be general agreement that the idea, no matter its merits, should be attempted. For science, if for nothing else. This is summer. This is what's coming. This is one thing, anyway.

It did not rain this weekend. Grass seed's up in the lawn. Sleep tight, Weatherheads.