It’s certainly hot enough for lemonade. Or any kind of liquid ‘ade’. My little mama gets her exercise by walking from her room, through my studio, out the sliding glass door to the patio, then in five minutes she makes the trip in reverse saying, ‘it’s just too hot to breathe, out there.’ That’s one of the few joys of dementia: every experience is fresh and new. I don’t even pause in my keyboard work, now, realizing that my remarks fall on (literally) deaf ears. Sometimes, for my own amusement, I’ll say something snarky like, “Yeah, Satan’s out there with his pitchfork, waiting for you,” to which she nods and smiles. I am bad. I want to be good. Someone please help me.