Last night the heat slaked off enough to open the windows, so that cool, fresh night air poured into the house. I fell asleep to the sound of a whirring fan.
It was like another place, the house with night air. Like a place that is part of the world it inhabits rather than separate from it.
The cicadas and crickets were singing their songs, and their music contributed to the feeling of aliveness in the house.
In the old days, we almost never used the air conditioning. But it comes in pretty handy these days, and I no longer roll my eyes at it. I accept the comfort it makes possible.
Still, the best sleeps are those without it, the ones when night air fills the house.