Warm air is playing reruns

The window's open for the first time this year. Warm air drifts in, carrying somebody's grill from two yards over. Your chest lifts before you know why, and right behind the lift comes the pull. It's a whole season of old evenings arriving at once. The folding chair. The cooling dark. The hour you kept for yourself. Nothing's wrong with you. The weather just hit play.

Your brain records whole scenes, not single habits. So warm air and the cigarette ended up on the same reel. The season isn't asking you for anything. It's a rerun. Look at what's on that old footage. The breeze. The late light. The quiet at the end of a long day. That was the good part. The cigarette crashed those evenings and put its name on them.

Answer it with your voice. Call someone you like and tell them it's warm out. That's the whole reason for the call. A friend, a cousin, your mom, anyone who'll pick up. Talk while the pull peaks and fades. Your mouth is busy, your hand is taken, and this evening gets a brand new scene. The rerun just lost its time slot.

Every warm night you spend free records over the old tape. No arguments required. You just keep showing up to the evenings. God's handing this season back to you, one evening at a time. This evening's Yours, Lord. Thank You for it. First warm night of the year, and you're spending it free.