He sits on the wooden stoop, his curls still wet from the river. Kicks his feet against the ground, bare feet, dust between his toes. Behind him on the porch, his mother is zesting a lemon, the scent swirling from her grater, across the porch and into his nose.
He smiles back at her, "I can smell your lemon, Mama,"
She laughs. Gets up and goes into the house, her skirts brushing briefly against his shoulder as she walks past.
The air smells of dust, sunbaked wood, and the faintest hint of lemon. The birds sing. He sits there and kicks his feet until his mama calls him in for dinner.