I come home with a sore throat. Tuesday. Every week Tuesday seems to day that kicks my butt the most. I feel like a rug worn to the weft. Like the delicate filigree of a leafâ€™s veinworkâ€”all thatâ€™s left after a season of snow. Or like the gray goose feathers scattered about the yard, down torn along the quill. My small boy is waiting for me, playing in the backyard in the slanting sunshine, his hair lit gold, his face smudged with a mustache of dirt. He burrows into me, a full body hug. He hands me a bottle of bubbles slick with soap, â€œBlow bubbles for me mommy!â€ he instructs, then waits until I fill the air with transparent rainbow spheres that float up towards the blue sky, cloudless and bright.
We walk down the driveway, the geese following us, a rumpus of flapping and honks, they think weâ€™re Mama. Anyone with two legs. Mama. The leaves have started to turn, though for the most part everythingâ€™s still lush and green and the air, until today was warm like summer. But today we can feel a crispness.
Suddenly Iâ€™m craving grapefruit and apples. Peaches and watermelon seem like afterthoughts. In the garden, potatoes wait to be dug, and pumpkins have grown fat.
Itâ€™s Tuesday and my throat hurts and I want to curl up and make time stand still so that I can catch up with myself. I lie in the grass after Bean goes indoors with DH. The evening sun is falling towards me. The grass is cold. I can here an owl, the baaing of sheep, the twitter of birds. The geese settle in next to me, preening. They nibble at my hair. I try to let myself sink down into the moment, noticing. Noticing layer upon layer of sound, of smell, of light, of hue.
Then theyâ€™re at the doorway wanting me for dinner, and I go.