Mary Grimm Summer Is Only A Construct

Sitting in the grass, discussing the nature of reality with an old friend while my daughter picked dandelions, crushing them against her fingers. These are yellow, she said, yellow yellow. My friend who was not a mother blew smoke at the sky. Don’t you think being outside opens you up to life? I said. Isn’t this what Sartre was getting at when he wrote Being and Nothingness? I still had a brain is what I was trying to say. The sun was hot. I don’t know my friend said. I don’t read Sartre any more. This is yellowy yellow, my daughter said. The dandelions bobbed and swayed. She rubbed them against her cheeks, and I pulled her hand away before the yellow got in her eyes.

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