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It is a sunday morning in the summer. It is kind of sticky with humidity and I know I’ve slept in too late because my room is bright and my blinds are making lines on the carpet and I’m already hot. And you can tell it’s sunday because of the buzz — the hum and crackle and spitz of the lawn mower. Dad is mowing the lawn. It’s not that he does it every Sunday but if he’s doing it—it’s definitely Sunday. He’s in the backyard now, which means he’s already gone over the front and if I peer out the front window I could spy the tell-tale stripes that kind of curve around our flowerbed. Our backyard is big enough that I get a sort of slow doppler effect from his pacing. And so I lay in bed and listen until finally, some time later, the motor cuts and it is silent again but for the birds in the tree outside my window.