Hometown.

The breeze was damp and gray today. Dun-colored - gray blue brown - hazel. An almost imperceptible fog, one of those that hangs just above the trees and contemplates becoming a rain cloud for the greater part of the day, waffling, never quite fulfilling itself, blocked out the heat of the sun. On days like this I've noticed that green grows and spreads and breathes. On sunny days, yellow and white blear out the greens. But on these days, these almost wet days, the heavy leaves hang and pant like the tongues of eager puppies. Only the gray branches and bark muzzle them. If I pass close enough, I feel the damp lick of them on my arm.

Fain and I walked up and down Main Street, a street that I once walked up and down with my first crush years ago. I carried Fain on my shoulders, and he grabbed at red berries hanging from holly trees that line the sidewalk. When we got to the town commons, I put him down in the grass. He stopped, surveyed the expansive, shady terrain, and wobbled from tree to tree, picking up leaves and pulling grass up by the roots, squealing, "Mommeeeeeeee."

Stately, old homes line two sides of the commons. Some are Victorian, with intricate lacy carvings decorating the porches. Japanese maples are just beginning to burst with delicate red firecracker leaves on a few lawns. The behemoth Baptist church where I was baptized as a little girl encompasses another side of the commons.

I didn't want to get back in the car and drive home. The air was cool and moist. The leaves were blushing before my eyes. People were walking along the sidewalk, talking, nodding, smiling. I can't help thinking when it feels so wonderful outside that I'm not guaranteed another day like this. And so we kept walking, veering off of Main Street to tour the interior of the tiny historic district.

On one of the streets that is named for a saint, Peter or Patrick or Andrew, there was a Civil War re-enactment with a small camp, men and women in gray and blue uniforms and drab dresses, cannons and muskets. Girls from the local 4-H club were selling Pepsi and hot dogs from a silver trailer. Women were selling home-made jams and butters, baskets, jewelry, and who knows what else at other booths. Fain wandered, unsteady and giggling, from one booth to another and then into a little garden, where he practiced bending to smell flowers.

I thought, I might have gone home and missed this. I might have missed this day. And who knows when I'll have another one like it.