(I guess I like photos of ice cream.)
Somehow, today came out even. She sang “Three Little Birds” while we made our beds, after a long undercover snuggle-up. I made a list of dinners for the week. I drank my coffee warm and the egg yolks came out medium-soft and she ate everything on her plate. I did not take personally her thrashing protestations over going with me to the grocery store.
I did forget to make the sushi rice and nearly forgot ballet lessons and that blue laundry basket is still sitting by back door, full. Which brings to mind yesterday’s photo of the fox caught in his cottage under a laundry landslide … there is a lot of laundry. Laundry and ice cream.
I spent my earning hours wisely, clickety clicking my way through an assignment, efficient. Every now and then, I get a project that gladdens me. That surprises me in its organized and clear direction, its ease.
Just now, I can hear the pained tones of a Mary Poppins audiobook drifting from the treehouse windows. Across the counter, soft shine of Pyrex bowls, upside down and drying. A tiny pot of lemon balm in the window. (It used to grow like a weed in my childhood backyard, that and mint. I would pick them both in bunches and tie the stems with twine, hang them upside-down in my dusty playhouse to dry. Pretending to be an herbalist witch, mason jars filled with water from the hose, making murky teas.)
A stack of receipts and paper scraps tallies everything we owe to friends, a nasty little snowball of small, incidental, but personal IOUs. I am forgetful when it comes to three things: listening to voicemail, paying people back, thank you notes. Anything that involves phone calls or stamps. A lifelong wicked splinter in my personal integrity.
Turns out, she can blow a party noisemaker with her nose.
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