Solid Ground

“You know what's great about plants.”

“I don't know. What?”

“That they are plants!!!” Sylvan looks at me incredulously. “Don't you get it?”

Ivory shrugs, and eats a raspberry.

The sky is peach and glowing.

We are sneaking a few raspberries at dusk.

The kids are up, way to late, once again.

The three of us walked down the street to water our garden plot.

Adam is washing the dishes.

The house is finally starting to cool down.

These fifteen minutes of my day are the only ones that seem to echo the rhythm of past summers.

I am trying to breathe – just breathe.

The sky fades to dark.

On the way home, I cradle a hand full of raspberries to share.

Soon after, we fall into our beds, on top of sheets and blankets.

I feel like I am treading water – cold icy water – that makes it hard to breathe.

I could dip under any moment.

My days and weeks are filled up.

I run back and forth, back and forth, drop off kids, pick up kids, bring them to work with me.

I count hours and try to figure out where to fit in more.

I relish the time when I can hang my laundry on the line.

I make lists: work lists, house lists, to do lists.

I check lists: who needs what, when and where.

I forget lists... I forget to make lists. 

 I don't make it to the grocery store.

The kids and I drive across town.

I have a free cup of coffee waiting for me at a coffee shop and the kids share a bagel before morning swim lessons. As we walk back to the car, my wildly unpredictably moody pre-pre teen girl, reaches for my hand:

“Don't you ever wonder how the star got inside the apple?”

I breathe.

In moments like these, I momentarily touch solid ground. 

Life might be crazy, but everything is just fine.