Five minutes: bringing attention to yesterday’s memory.

We stuff snacks into a bag, wrap cold packs around a two-thirds full bottle of Pinot gris. Mason jar of lemonade. Sunscreen slather. Low lawn chairs and leashed dog, kid-scramble let loose into the Eurovan back seat, and we’re off to the river on a Friday afternoon.

The nephew is at first entirely outraged at our chosen site. There will be no crawdads or enough digging, he is certain. He hurtles across the grass in protest, scales a tree to sulk. It’s hard to have expectations dashed, even a little, when you’re seven.

Soon enough, he is back — lured by cousin and hidey holes, a bag of plastic backhoes and monster trucks, lapping river.

A canoe slides by, carrying a young woman with a tiny poodle between her knees and a green parrot on her shoulder. The craft is steered by her likely lover, button suspenders stretched over his naked torso.

We drink the wine from Dixie cups. A crawdad scuttles through the shallows. We can feel the kids exhale into summer and their world of partnership and skirmish.

Tomorrow is the longest day of the year.