Gratitude that the rain has stopped, at least for now. That sun, hot and bright, is pouring down on the fields of dandelions and lilac hedgerows. That my body, sore as it is, allows me to do this: to keep these hours, to tile, to rip out the ugly bathroom vanity upstairs plying it with a sledge hammer and crowbar, delicately so as not to destroy the wall. That my inlaws have been here all week, caring for Bean, making meals, helping to paint. Gratitude at looking up and seeing a bowl full of dark ink and stars spilled out across the heavens.
Gratitude at driving the washboard bumpy road to the house and seeing a fox slink into the high grass almost every evening, a wisp of orange, a fleeting hint of wildness.
Gratitude standing under the apple trees and hearing the hum of a thousand bees, the air pulsing with their honey-gathering vibrations.
Gratitude that today we start flooring, and that when the inlaws leave my dearest friend and her boyfriend are coming to help us move.
So much to be thankful for, even now when every muscle in my body aches. When my head zings from lack of sleep. When, as I type, I can feel tenderness in all the tiny ligaments in my wrists and fingers.
This process is something like labor: there is no alternate way out. We must simply make do. Confronting each day and moment with everything we can give, and trusting we’ll get there. Now, only a handful of days.