In Stereo

Unusually for just before noon, the era feels safe. She still has to admit to herself that it started feeling safe six years ago. The time when she decided to stop (she could have said "niet") secretly stocking up on cans for the family's nonexistent fallout shelter. Her apron is on and has a small spot, more of a nick, maple-syrup brown, while the air promises bright blue through the day, pitching it home the right way. The unseen and successful husband swings calmly on the green with someone of unparticular note, not minding the divots. In two years, their daughter will put on a lei and lose her virginity. Their older son, who now wishes to go to Belize (mainly because of his childhood coloring book, where toucans got the most of him), will have his last sip in Guyana. The weatherman beams when he gets his cue from the anchor with the top stories.