Easter Sunday

The afternoon smelled like a molded beeswax horse decoration my friend gave me in middle school... sweet, yet not so very like the smell of honey itself, and in a way warm: the smell of summer days not too hot and thick with bugs buzzing and things that grow in fields waving in the breeze. Sweet, and summery, yet indistinct.

The day would have been sublime for any normal person, but it even was for me, because it was not summer; it was spring, and yet clearly this was a summer day. I was not ready for it, and that is why it could strike me so deliciously; I was off guard.

I was charmed by the day itself and, in a synergy of charms, the unbelievable fact that we were playing croquet. I feel I have once imagined playing croquet in our yard--the yard is not perfect for it, but we are neither nobility nor rich so that doesn't matter--yet I don't believe I ever believed it would actually happen. The "thok" of wooden mallets conversing with the wooden balls was so pleasing I wished for a recording, to play on future occasions when I might wish to be back here, in today, playing croquet.

Another unexpected pleasure was that our croquet game was silently attended (for just a moment) by a hawk of some kind, gliding quickly above our heads, close enough for me to see the excellence of his marly underbody feathers. The dictionary tells me that "marl" is a kind of dirt, but I know that one can have a "gray marl" sweater or "marled" socks, and that is what I mean. The order and understated fashionability of his birdy breast was simply excellent. And the fact that he planed so low I could see it was very kind. I confess I was pleased that not everyone noticed him.

The odd thing about the croquet was that I was moderately good at it. That is, I would be good for a few minutes and get way ahead, then I would play poorly for enough strokes that the others would catch up. The unfortunate thing about the situation was how it fed my pride. The pride in turn fueled a competitive streak I had pretended to forget about. Then Justin's dad also finished the course, and we were both "poison," each of our balls capable of putting others and even each other out of the game upon contact. Imagine my disbelief when his ball struck mine and I was suddenly dead, defeated by his poison, which hurtled unbelievably across the course and even lifted off the ground with the impact from hitting my ball: