Wednesday, June 30, 2010
"Love, love, love," Lulie chants as I smear jelly on bread. My children call the jelly love.
"Careful, don't fall."
Lips puckered, she points to dark berry jam, "Dat love. Momma, dat love."
The kitchen orbits around a wooden cutting board. The children balance on stools and lean in, crowd my elbows. I smooth down bumpy mounds of peanut butter.
"Jack," Janie pauses, "you can have anything you want that I can give you." She's on the brown spool stool, the tall one, the one she took but then Jack gave it to her.
It's a contest. I wonder who can win at doing nice things for each other, I'd said. And suddenly, there we are caught in the chase. It's a game, irresistible gravity pulls them in.
We serve each other sandwiches and join the children's bouquets at the table. Jelly squishes out the sides. Love. We lick it off, cheeks and fingers stained sweet.