It's our first rainy day of fall. The heat is on in the house. I just want to nest, rearrange picture frames and lamp, light candles and bake bread. The children dance to their songs on Pandora, sing, slip back into my bed, ask for a movie. I oblige, happy to sit and write and sip tea, bask in the dark hue of a day without sunshine.
Jeff's gone for the weekend and I see how easily we slip into our little routine. The music and baking and random little excursions to Butterfly to buy tea and a tiny bag of candy for each of them. To the farmer's market for apples and purple potatoes. The serendipity of the kind man from the Bitteroot and his peacock feathers and dried bouquets. He was the impetus for the nesting and rearranging, though I'm still not sure if the long strands fit right in the smallish vase, wish for a teleport to the Import Market to buy just the right thing.
For now, it doesn't matter. Just this space and my babies. My music and my mellow.
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