There is the crackling and pop of fire and I feel the flames against my calves - it burns and I have to move back my chair.  I am a sinner, wrapping myself in a covetous spirit on the back end of this back yard that feels like a resort.  All day by the pool.  Kissed by sun and husband and children.  Time with my favourites. So much laughter my throat hurts.

The children sleep.  Sapped by sun and water and joy.  And we sit around the crackling, hearing stories of sixth grade glory and Dundalk bullies.  Night's soundtrack pours from the Hock Shop speakers, sporadic bursts of three part harmonies when a song pleases...and somewhere between Skydiggers and Bon Jovi she leans over, "He reads your blog while he's pooping."

And they all laugh.

But I'm not sure what to think.  It could be one of two things.  Either my writing stinks up the place so bad that you can only read it in the bathroom.  OR, it's so good he can't stand to put it down long enough to go to the bathroom...

Either way, I've never heard that one before.

And now, even as I'm typing this, guess what I'm picturing?

           .....yeah, it might be wrecked for me now.