S. E. Presley

The spring rain had just ended, leaving behind a backyard that looked less like a lawn and more like a squishy, shimmering marshland. Raindrops clung to every blade of grass, glittering like diamonds in the early sun. Birds chirped, the air smelled like fresh earth, and puddles the size of small lakes had appeared like magic.

The day started like most Sundays, with Sundae snoring upside down on the living room rug, her legs pointed to the ceiling like furry antennae. But this Sunday was different. I jingled the car keys and announced, “Sundae, we’re going cherry picking today!”