The smell of barbecue grills fills the evening air throughout the neighborhood.
The outdoor tables on Newbury Street are filled with women in strapless dresses and men in cargo shorts.
Now that boots are too hot, I find I have no decent shoes. Nothing magically materialized in my closet over the winter.
With only about three weeks to Opening Day, the Red Sox are a looming, hopeful reality again — instead of a half-forgotten nightmare redolent of fried chicken, beer, and shame.
And Possum has returned to the sink.