The basement floor is comfortable, the overnight air-conditioning doing its job.
Up in the kitchen, Aunt Ruth is preparing breakfast for her out-of-town guests, the clinking of breakfast dishes signifying nourishment.
Some cereal, some strawberries, a glass of orange juice.
The morning sun is already blistering hot and a haze is forming over the elementary school.
Cousins enter and leave rooms.
Scott and I go for a bike ride. It's 10 o'clock and too muggy to be outside.
I know where I want to be. I'm already watching the clock, counting the minutes until 1:20, the first pitch at Wrigley.
After a few endless, sweaty hours, the scorching sun now streaming through the windows and seemingly penetrating the walls, I head back to the basement.
Settling into a comfy overstuffed chair with a root beer provided by Aunt Ruth, Jack Brickhouse fills the screen and announces the Cubs lineup.
August in Chicago, many years ago.