It was hot. Very hot and very humid. In
those dog days of summer at Dad's house, we would turn on the one air
conditioner window unit we had downstairs and pretty much camp out
down there. I can remember Wimbledon playing on the tiny TV that
traveled around to whichever room my dad, barefoot wearing cut-off
denim shorts and a perfectly worn in red Adidas t-shirt, was situated
in. In the kitchen, also barefoot, with the back door open the sound
of the cicadas and the smell of the 30% chance of afternoon thunderstorms through the
screen door, I would be standing over the sink with a tomato sandwich
in my hands and the magical mixture of salty mayonnaise and the seedy,
juicy mess of the perfectly sweet and ripe tomato running down my
face and wrists.