What a glorious weekend, if not for the wind of course, but we expect some breeze in the afternoons here. But if you were behind the window, in that perfect stream of sunlight, on the couch say, well……….
Which reminds me, it is almost Mothers Day.
Ye gads but it still sends shivers of fear into an old cook’s heart.
It’s probably just me, but wouldn’t it be more appropriate to have a quiet little brunch at home with the people Mom truly loves rather than doing the big brunch thing out. As long as it wasn’t left to her to cook or clean up, of course.
Perhaps that’s just the indelible perspective of too many Mothers Days spent away from mine and up to my elbows in broken eggs, spattered bacon grease, breakfast debris and an endless line of well dressed people waiting in line or at the table.
As for us we’ll be going down to Momma’s place in the morning, just to say hello, sit in the sunlight, the dogs all giddy with exercise and endangering the flowers, drinking our coffee, passing the time.
She, still in her long nightgown, a bit more thin and fragile than last year, our lives drifting apart, we stand on separate ice flows carried by the same river.
I can see her there, puttering about, moving lawn hoses, planting flowers, movement for the sake of moving, in war with inertia, the daily struggle against gravity.
She seems so small.
Over here, in our world, time is but a breath and then it’s on to this next thing, answering calls, building castles, growing.
Sometimes we intersect, cross over, but we’re aliens bound only by blood and common memories, we interpret in different tongues and are called away by different demands.
It’s not how we thought it would be, but then, is it ever?
A note to Polly:
We wish you the pleasantest of evenings there in Texas, know that we cherish you and hope to see you soon.