On the fourth of July I found myself stretched out in a hammock, enclosed by a screened-in porch, head raised slightly on a small pillow. A lazy ceiling fan stirred up a small yet consistent breeze, a cooling touch against my slightly sunburned legs, rendered pink from my mid-day swim under an almost cloudless sky. I draped one leg towards the ground in order to gently rock myself.
In my left hand I held a book while my right hand kept the pages from advancing too fast. Sixteen pounds of large, brown tabby cat jumped up next to me, demanding to be pet and then retreating to the end of the hammock where he picked at the taut rope with blunt toes and sharp teeth.
I looked toward my own plain toes and drafted a less-than-140-character description of my current situation:
Do Not Disturb
Heeding my own advice, I did not get up and get my phone to send the message. Instead, I turned the page and began another chapter.