Augustseventh.

Bare.

Mr. Keller has been trying to strap shoes on my feet since before we were even married. (Worry is his middle name.) He also quickly made a rule that there would be no feet on the dashboard, (even on long roadtrips), but that's a "whatever!" story for another time.

As far as telling me I need to wear shoes, I'll continue to hear none of it. It's not in my genes. I'm pretty sure I spent my entire childhood barefoot. And now, slow summers at home as a madre are really no different. Barefoot. It's like a need for me. And tell me, what's more refreshing than cool grass beneath your feet?

Perhaps nothing at all. It's like a gift; a kiss from lips of summer.