It's just a week day. It's the middle of the week, and the middle of a morning. Max has a fever; last night he barfed. The sky is the color of sooty cotton and the hills are obscured by a film of the same sooty colored gauze. And it is finally raining, and has been since yesterday. It rained enough to forge fissures in the pasture floor, and to bring out dormant frogs. Snails are easing across the sidewalks, worms are coming to the surface of the earth to breathe. Today is Wednesday and tomorrow is Thursday, and I am glad to be here.
I can read to Max, and hold his brow the way he likes it to be held, with my palm in full contact and lifting his hair off of his face. I can make pancakes for William, Alex and Max, and pour the batter in to the shapes of flowers, chickens and blobs. I can listen for the wind as it races through the mountain passes, across the valley and up our hill, as it whistles through the windows and cries like a lonesome creature. I can wear the ridiculous slippers that came for my birthday; I never would have bought them, but I wear them daily, because they shock and amuse me. I can watch, listen, as William and Alex sit side by side and write a very scary story; they discuss character development and motive. I can run my fingers through Diego's soft, warm belly fur, and delight in his quivering meow.
Max will be well soon, and the rain will stop too. It is certain that many things will move, change, grow, adjust. I cannot be certain that I will witness Thursday or the year 2052, but I am glad for the moments when I am aware; when pancakes smell good, and slippers keep away winter chill, when "Frog and Toad Are Friends" remind me of real people I know and love, and when I can be as content as I am now, in the middle of this week.
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