We have enjoyed three picnics this week. We spread a sleeping bag over the wood chips near the playset, or across the lawn in the yard out the dining room door. Sandwiches and chips, juice, pickles; Max chopped carrot rounds today. We bring books and drawing pads. We bring Diego. Nena and Chango stop by to visit. We talk about kite flying, egrets, Girl Scout cookies, Hawaii and farming, the snow that is disappearing from our view. We read a joke book and laugh. We tell jokes of our own and laugh some more.

The weather could not be more ideal; not for a picnic. It is warm and, even away from the shade, the sun is not searing. There is enough breeze to carry sweet scents, blow away flies. It does not chill, or lift waxed paper sandwich wrappers. The sky is the promise of Spring. It is blue, endlessly blue. Leaves are unfurling in the fig trees.

Today William and Alex finished their lunch and returned to their room. Max and I sat together. He offered me a corn chip. I declined. He said he liked our time together sitting on the sleeping bag. I agreed. He pointed to the faintest crescent of moon. And we marveled at its presence. I took off my hat, and stretched out on the grass. Max poofed (gas talk) and our eyes met. He grinned, and I grinned and then we laughed too. "What makes poofies funny, do you think?" I asked him philosophically, frankly. He knew and did not hesitate,"God."