When I wake, I pull up my phone and read for a bit. The room is cool and dark but I can tell it will be warm out today. Another day I will take care of dinner, so when Ralph comes home he can work on refinishing the deck.
But this is for later. I am still in bed. My son wakes and pulls himself close to me. After a bit he turns over and nestles up against me, the little spoon. His skin is smooth and brown, cream in coffee. I stroke his back a bit and pull him close, put my face in his hair. “I love you so much,” he whispers.
I make up a lunch, later, before I retire to my studio to sew. I soak rice noodles and whisk together a sauce; minced ginger, shoyu, tahini, peanut butter, and sesame oil. Carrots, green peas. A hot pan and seared tofu in sesame oil.
My daughter is in the shower; Nels and I sit down with our bowls of noodles, and garlic chili sauce. He is exclaiming in wonder how delicious the food is, and how quickly I cooked it. I think about how I cooked for the family for the first ten years of family life; my husband has been doing most of the cooking the last four years. Funny though, you don’t really forget, when you have that much experience.
The sun streams through the windows; the kitties are more or less content. Herbert Pocket sleeps curled up around the hibiscus trunk, her body fitting perfectly in the earthenware pot. The children take the dog for a walk; Phoenix hangs towels and puts away laundry, before padding off upstairs to draw, as she is wont to do.
Downstairs where I work, little spiders come to visit, and I carefully move them aside. The garage door is open and I ask after the young neighbor next door. He comes inside and sits with me and we talk: school (he’s at high school this year), siblings, Halloween.
The companionship of kitties, of children, of little baby spiders. It’s no wonder I have been feeling rather well lately.