We dug for worms in the early morning before the sun lit its match—dew-covered memories for sure.
It was a good time of day to do that work. But never better than at night when we would take flashlights and explore, a horde of teenage archeologists, muttering and pacing and pointing. We were all Indiana Jones, a stone’s throw from the radiant kitchen window, the one that framed my Mom at the kitchen sink. A jagged shard of light as bright and crisp as a freshly ironed bed sheet cut the dark in two. I could practically smell the warm cotton.
The worms lived between two worlds at night—above and below ground. They soaked up warmth from the bakery-fresh soil and bathed in the evening’s ice-bath after the sun mercifully put away its hammer and ceased beating the tar out of us.
Prone on a sweat-soaked anvil.
Until tomorrow.