Summer is a thing apart. It's different than fall and spring.
Summer can be a time machine.
One moment you're going along, and it is now, and things are as they are.
The next moment you are at the beach, and you have swum past the breakers with Shiloh, and you are lying face up and floating, looking like a couple of shipwreck survivors, imagining you can hear all the ocean as you submerge your ears. And then James swims over, and makes you laugh, and Shiloh nearly drowns in the effort of laughing and treading water. And you stay out in that water a long time, and you are not cut off from the shore, and the car, and the cooler full of cherries and bottles of water, but, you are.
You are in a window of time that feels remarkably like a window of time from six or seven or eight years ago, when no one had any responsibility so great it couldn't be blown off, and our only real obligation was making each other laugh.
And you feel an ache, a very brief one, because those days are past. But it's brief because you knew that then, and you loved those moments so much because you knew. And you love the moments now, because you know that these days will pass too, and you will miss this day with the shore, the car, and the cooler.
But, you will probably love that future present, too.