Late June.

It's a beautiful summer in Morgantown. There is water, my muse, all around—the kind you can play in—lakes and rivers, creeks and forest streams. Moody toddler and daylight hours willing, I'll explore these waters before the season settles down for a 9-month nap. If not, I'm content just knowing it's there when I'm ready. I have no use for disappointment when I feel at home.

In this town, there are big swatches of grass for sitting and running and lying down. Patios and paddle boats. Parks galore, with noise or silence; in town and on the outskirts. There is outdoor music. Cracks in neighborhood sidewalks for little boys to jump over. A busy downtown with friendly strangers to pet friendly pit bulls.

I have life-size hopes for the hot, blurry expanse of summer. I want to meet the mornings early rather than late so I can take my boy to the park or the pool and get home in time for his nap, which is nature's medicine for both of us. I want pizza, maybe once a week from the riverfront coal-fired place oor the place that's the late-night favorite of drunk college kids that had the best slices in town until an obviously nonItalian family bought it. And I need lots and lots of the best ice cream ever, custard style, so thick I could almost cut it with a knife. 

I want to say to my dog, "Yes, Joker, you're coming" at least once per day when he runs to grab his leash if I get too close to the front door. That creature. I took him in as a foster, not intending to keep him having two dogs already, but now he's my only dog, and how I love him because he's such a good, good boy. And my baby boy—I want endless sunny afternoons lit all the more by his smile, which inevitably turns his two-year-old face into a replica of mine at that age. When he laughs really hard, his two big front teeth become exclamation points popping out from behind his lips. I love to watch him run on the grassy hillside by the river downtown, partly because his joy is contagious, and partly because his flapping arms and unsteady gait make him look like a little penguin. One day he'll run like a big boy, sure and steady. 

This summer, I've got it: the life on which I had set my sights three years ago come mid-July. I'm always setting my sights on something. It's a good way to live, as long as you set them not too high and not too low. I'm here with my boy and my dog and we have a comfy little place to call our own. And I get paid to write! What a dream. It could only be dreamier if there were bylines in magazines or my name on a book, but I'm patient for what's to come. I get to work in my pajamas, or whatever I feel like wearing, which is usually the workout clothes in which I'll eventually jog through town, big-wheeled stroller in one hand, leash in the other. Working from home with a mercurial toddler in my face every few minutes isn't ideal—but then again, maybe it is. It's the way I originally envisioned it. No daycare; just us. I don't have enough help, but what I have is somehow enough. My parents, they have a beautiful relationship with my son. He's the moon to their tide. My big brother adores him in a way that only my brother can, with silly made-up nicknames and witty jokes. Everything is the best it can be.

This summer, I've become a real-deal stay-at-home, work-at-home single mother. What a mouthful ... for a handful ... that's me, I'm told. I guess I was made for people with strong hands. I wince at the label "single mom," afraid it sounds pitiful. I see myself as not an object of pity but a reservoir of resilience. 

Today I took Pvt. Joker to a park I'd never seen, 15 minutes or so outside town. There were campgrounds and playgrounds and ponds. We walked and walked. Families fished and picnicked. From a distance over the hill, small children squealed and splashed in dollar-store inner tubes. Strangers remarked at my handsome spotted dog and how he listened when I said "stay" while I took his picture. The sun grew larger above us, turning up the color of the grass from bright to neon. I wrote a belated email by the pond and ate stale sesame sticks from the environmentally friendly snack bag that was sent to me as a sample when I was a magazine editor in Memphis. My spotted dog's panting became louder in chorus with the sun, so we headed home. 

Back in my car, I noticed the passenger seat was filthy and covered in dog hair, despite how I'd tried to cover it with a sheet. I told myself I'd clean it when I got home. I didn't. I've been here instead, typing. Stopping to discuss dinner plans with an old friend. Typing some more. Thinking about stopping to do some squats. Typing again. Wondering what happened to the huge rat who appeared to be dying in my yard this morning but was gone when I returned. Hoping this summer will bring backyard cookouts with a group of friends I don't yet have. Pining for the ocean.

This city has given my life color again. The summer is as wide open as the sky. I bow in gratitude.