Late June.

Looking back on a summer, a first son, and a soul dog.

Summer has reached midlife in Morgantown. Young enough for beautiful days ahead; old enough to know its worth. There is water, my muse, all around: muddy lakes and frothy rivers, craggy creeks and shallow forest streams. Unlike the aloof Mississippi, which I could admire only from afar, these waters are affable, ripe for splashing and swimming. Moody toddler and daylight hours willing, I'll explore these waters before the season settles down for a 9-month nap.

In this town, there are big swatches of grass for sitting and running and lying down. Patios and paddle boats. Parks galore, with noise or silence. There is outdoor music. A busy downtown with friendly strangers to pet friendly pit bulls. There are cracks in neighborhood sidewalks begging for little boys to sing “step on a crack, break your mamma’s back” ... or is that a long-gone relic of 80s childhood?

I have life-size hopes for the hot, blurry expanse of summer. I want to meet the mornings early rather than late so I can take my boy to the park or the pool and get home in time for his nap, which is nature’s medicine for both of us. I want pizza for my weekend carbfest, either coal-fired at the family friendly spot on the riverfront or New York style on the main drag downtown populated by college kids high on on Natty Light, low on good judgment. And I need a mile-high cone of the best ice cream ever, custard style, so thick I could cut it with a knife.

I want to tell my soul dog, “Yes, Joker, you’re coming” as he rushes toward his leash when I get close to the front door. That creature, he’s magic. I took him in as a foster, no intention of adding a third dog to my freelance-writer budget. Three years later, he’s now my only dog, and I love his stoic, calming presence more than frozen custard or pizza any day of the week. Then there’s my human baby boy — I want endless sunny afternoons lit all the more by his smile, which inevitably turns his two-year-old face into a replica of mine at that age. When he belly laughs, his oversized front teeth become exclamation points popping out from behind his puffy lips. I love to watch him run on the grassy hillside by the river downtown, partly because his joy is contagious but mostly because his flapping arms and unsteady gait make him look like a little penguin. One day he’ll run like a big boy, sure and steady.

This summer, I have it: the life on which I had set my sights three summers ago when my world in Memphis shifted from free-flow to bottleneck. I’m always setting my sights on something. It’s a good way to live, as long as you set them not too high and not too low. I’m here with my boy and my dog, and we have a comfy little place to call our own. And I get paid to write! What a dream. It could only be dreamier if there were bylines in big magazines or my name on a book, but I’m patient for what’s to come. I get to work in my pajamas, or whatever I feel like wearing, which is usually the workout clothes in which I’ll eventually jog through town, big-wheeled stroller in one hand, leash in the other. Working from home with a mercurial toddler in my face every few minutes isn’t ideal ... or then again, maybe it is. It’s the way my mind’s eye captured it before it came to be: No strangers raising my boy at daycare. Just us, learning and growing together. I don’t have enough hands or hours to do all the things in a day, but what I have is somehow enough. My parents got the grandchild they never thought they’d have; he’s the moon to their tide. My big brother adores him in a way that only my brother can, with silly made-up nicknames and witty jokes. Everything is the best it can be.

Today I took Pvt. Joker to a park I had never seen during all my college years in Morgantown, 15 minutes or so outside town. Down a long wooded road I found campgrounds and playgrounds and ponds. While Joker and I made our way around the water, families fished and picnicked.

From a distance over a hill, small children squealed and splashed in dollar-store inner tubes. Strangers admired my handsome spotted dog and remarked at how well he sat still as I photographed his majestic form against the backdrop of West Virginia summer splendor. The sun spread wider and wider above us, turning up the hue of the grass from crayon to neon. I wrote a belated work email by the pond and ate stale sesame sticks from the reusable snack bag that came as a perk of being a health & fitness magazine editor in Memphis. When my spotted dog’s panting grew louder in chorus with the sun, we headed home.

As I loaded Joker into the passenger seat, I noticed dirt and dog hair peppering the parts of the seat not covered by the sheet I’d quickly thrown over it to prevent that very thing. I’ll clean it first thing when we get home. I didn’t. I’ve been here instead, typing. Stopping to discuss dinner plans with an old friend. Typing some more. Thinking about stopping to do some squats. Typing again. Wondering what happened to the writhing rat who appeared to be dying in my yard this morning but was gone when I returned. Hoping this summer will bring backyard cookouts with a group of friends I don’t yet have. Pining for the ocean.

This city has given my life color again. The summer is as wide open as the sky. I bow in gratitude.