WICC’s sounds of the seventies float out the kitchen window drift across the lawn where my father rushes the sprinkler rushes it, joyous and alive like he too is five joyous with the heat, the summertime, when time stops and we all ignore the weather report, the news, who’s blowing up who to steep in our youth to trust that when the grass is wet between your toes the moment can be frozen; it is yours.