The first day of spring. The experiment that lasted an afternoon.

What happened was: nothing, for about twelve minutes. My daughter stood in the doorway looking at the garden with an expression that I can only describe as suspicious. My son went to check his phone. I said the phone wasn't an option. He went back to the doorway and stood next to his sister.

Then something started. It always starts around twelve to fifteen minutes — I've noticed this consistently over the years. It's like there's a layer of boredom that has to be crossed before the actual afternoon can begin. The twelve minutes of standing and doing nothing is the crossing.

My son picked up a stick. My daughter asked him what he was doing. He said he didn't know. They went around the side of the house where I couldn't see them and I heard them talking in low voices.

This is the specific quality of the afternoon that I want to hold onto: I didn't know what they were doing. I couldn't hear them. The low voices and the not-knowing were part of what made it different from the afternoons when I'm present and directing and the afternoon unfolds in response to my involvement rather than theirs.