There is this time, between when they start eating dinner and bedtime, when everything just waiting. You can't start anything or finish anything because it will be time to brush teeth soon and they'll want to push the button on my toothbrush and then it will be playtime and after that they'll go up the stairs and it will be time to clean the table and sweep the floor and wash the dishes, but in the time when everything is just waiting there's nothing that needs doing, not yet.
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We played baby mom superheroes and they put sparkle heart stickers all over our tummies and went out for pizza and came back home through the alley and ate broccoli flowers from the yard and went to the grocery store and they called me mommy and then we came home and sat on the porch with no coats on and they made flower bombs for us, fennel and lemon balm and dandelions and grape hyacinth and grass, wadded up into green nests in their little hands, and they held them out to us as the sun set, saying, smell this.
The hoya's waxy flowers are unfolding themselves like little reverse origami squares.
My officemate brought me a video of their bees, which would only play in slow motion, and I sat there and watched bees with their slowed-down wings thrumming and glittering gold against the new wood of the hive box.
It's a year since the day that a small thing happened and that small thing was the start of a huge thing and now I'm sitting on the couch with tarot cards scattered in front of me while they pick their way through a new song on the ukelele and there's a fire in the hearth, the heart, and I made it, the fire, but also I made it here, to now, and I have every single thing I need in this moment and the vine outside really is wisteria, I'm sure of it, and the kiddo comes home tomorrow, and everything in the yard that seemed like it was dead is blooming and that's also a metaphor in case you were wondering.
We are curled up on the couch, in the dim warmth, and outside the glass big drops of cold rain smack down onto the spring leaves, thwacking them down, and then they bounce back up and throw off a shower of tiny droplets, and their tiny back is pressed against my chest and they are holding my arm hard against their chest and they've draped their small warm hand over mine and we are breathing together and we are home.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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