It’s one of those warm Sunday nights when the cicadas hum in the trees, and the porch swing creaks like an old friend.
The radio drifts in and out with soft music, while the scent of Sunday supper still lingers, fried chicken and biscuits from grandma’s kitchen. Spending a few afternoon hours washing the car with Dad, the sun glinting off the nearby water as we laughed and played.
But out in the yard, this little rascal has a different plan. Hat tipped just so, boots dusty from adventure, she’s got mischief in her eyes. “I’m fixin’ to get in trouble. You comin’?” she says, inviting us all to forget bedtime, to chase a bit of joy before the week begins.
Maybe that little voice of mischief never really leaves us. I think of all the times, even now, when my imagination dares me to take the unbeaten path, to stir things up just enough to find a spark of joy.
Getting in trouble, at least the kind that makes you laugh, has always been part of living fully. It’s as if this little cowgirl on a summer Sunday is still whispering, “You comin’?” And most days, I still say yes.
Main Street Rocky Mount 