Meadow Larks

There was a meadow in front the house we rented in Maine--a swath of tall grasses and wild flowers mowed down with a view of the marshes, and in the distance, the ocean. Along the mow line, there were rust-colored slugs (which both fascinated and terrified Cass) and a vegetable garden. This particular night, the mosquitos ignored us, and the cool evening air held a salty mix of sea, charcoal and evergreen. The boys were sweet and playful and full of the joy of vacation. We planted some herbs in their garden and kicked around a soccer ball. I taught Cass how to blow on a piece of grass to make music, and there was the thrill of his first sparkler. In many ways, the simplicity of this trip was what made it so special. Most nights, we went down to the beach to run off that last bit of nighttime energy in the wet sand at low tide, make designs in the sand with sticks and look for shells. But this night we didn't do anything. On this night they played on, under and with a blanket for almost two hours, because there were no other distractions. On this night, they giggled for no reason at all and chased each other in circles until their legs gave out. On this night, I felt the fleeting nature of a week-long vacation--of their ages, of all the little moments that turn into memories--and decided to stand still and observe.

The photo below is one of my favorites. I caught them completely unaware of one another, studying a separate blade of grass with the same curious face. The same intense scrutiny and fascination. They are both so different, growing into their own personalities, but on this night, they are brothers--a unit, a pair. Like one, not two.