From my upstairs window I hear a log truck jake-braking up the rise by Huntress Cemetery, then sputtering, then fading down the road toward town. Yesterday Paul scored all three goals in Harmony's first soccer game of the season as I sat in my broken lawn chair and flapped at a cloud of desperate, late-season midges. I felt, as one does feel with growing children, as if the world no longer belongs to me. It is a melancholy sensation but bearable, though in my case unreliably mixed up with head-cold apathy. Tomorrow, perhaps, my vim will reassert itself. I would like to imagine that I am intelligent, energetic, and passionate, and I have hopes of being so in the near future. Nonetheless, there is no returning to those moments of youth, when a child suddenly realizes his body's potential for adult flight. I sit in my midgy lawn chair and I am glad for him, but my eyes prickle with what might be tears or might be an oncoming sneeze, and in the meantime the sun shoots its last cloudy rays over the field and parents next to me complain about something or other and I blow my nose and soldier on.