“On Tuesday, when there was popcorn rain, we moved away from the windows and we moved into the libing room to be away from the windows.”
Speaking of popcorn, the colors of seeds and silk are inverse from our sweet corn.
There’s a whole mess ‘a beans here.
“You made a mess, mama?”
No, honey. A mess is a silly word. It can mean a lot of something.
“You should clean up your bean mess, mama.”
Don’t you worry, little lady. I plan to do just that.
He’s picking flowers, love.
“He’s eating them?”
Yes, he’s eating them.
“Don’t eat flowers, buddee!”
It’s ok to eat those flowers, honey. Would you like one?
“Yes. I’d like one. Ima pick it. Mama, I need to put my flower inside so it doesn’t get cold.”
Inside is colder than outside today. Your flower may like it inside because it’s cooler.
“No, mama. My flower doesn’t like it colder.”
“Mama, my flower needs water! It’s sad! It’s so thirsty!”
It is sad, but it might be too late. We can try anyway. Go ask papa for a cup and get some water.
“Drink, flower. You’re so thirsty, you need to drink.”
So flowers don’t drink from their mouths like we do. Flowers drink from their stems. The stem is the long green part that looks like a noodle.
“My flower drinks like this, with its mouth.”
I don’t know how much your flower likes that, honey. It wants the water to come up the stem, from the bottom.
“Look, mama. It wants the water from its stem. Like this. Ima show you.”
Yes, honey, it does, just like that.
I hadn’t seen the stars in untold time.
Ah, no, bug. It only looks pokey. Touch it. It’s ok.
No, honey. That’s corn.
“That’s not corn, mama. That’s grass.”
“I want to take pictures, mama.”
“Sometimes I think the urgency to continue on to the next mundanity is a calculated distraction designed to prevent one from feeling all of the depth, breath, and heft of each moment. Each moment is wrapped in layer after layer and rare is the painless peeling.”
– me, soaking up every iota of input from the moments spent swaying, holding my son, who will be even older tomorrow, until enough tomorrows have passed that he no longer fits in the cradle of my arms, his head too large someday for the crook of my neck. Me, soaking up so much that I overflow and tears slip between my lashes and I breathe into the cramp growing in my back to stand and sway a little longer.