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Sixty-three Degrees

The interpretation of  Wednesday’s 63 degrees depended entirely on the individuals.  Of which there were three.

I sat at our picnic table in the backyard zipped to the chin in my jacket.  If the sun was out, I still couldn’t feel it.

My children, ten feet away in the same backyard, skittered around in last year’s droopy swimsuits until they claimed they were so hot that they needed the sprinklers on.

At which time I choked on a piece of air. 

And… promptly vetoed the use of any sprinkler.

“But we’re so hot,” they’d persisted.

Which was when I pointed, in my sympathy, to the plastic cup beside me. 

“Are you serious? ”  my daughter wanted to know.  “Can we really pour water on ourselves?”

And I smiled.  “You really can.”

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