"Why were you pounding on the piano?" I croak.
Joe and Myra promenade around the end of my bed. "We were wanting to sing songs," Myra says.
"Yeah," Joe chimes, "we was. We was."
"Oh," I say.
They trip-trop out of the room like puppets on a string then parade back through, Joe in underwear, Myra in a sweatshirt and pink rain boots.
"I'm making eggs for me and you, me and you," Joe says. He points to me and him and me and him.
"We're making MUSTARD eggs," Myra says. "But I might need you to crack the eggs."
"Oh," I say. "Better get dressed. Joe go put some pants on."
He wriggles into pants, stretches and contorts and finally has Myra snap the front. We make eggs. Myra dribbles on the burner. The eggs stick to the pan. We put lots of fancy salt on them.
"Want to pray together?" Myra says.
"Yeah," I say. And then we eat.
"I'm getting to be a little bit like a pig," Myra says "'cause I'm eating all these eggs." They look orange with salt. She has them cut in tiny triangles. Joe cuts haphazardly. Wet crumbs litter the floor. I make pools of honey on my toast.
"Mmmm. Put your dishes in the dishwasher," I say. "Here, bring me that rag. I'll wipe your spot."
They graze over oranges and bananas. I knit. Myra putters Joe over the hardwoods in a baby rocking chair: their car. He whirls his arms for the engine.
Then I tell them to clean up. The morning unfurls with the rhythm of a gently rocking sea.
5579. Pomegranates, fresh and fat.
5580. New stitch markers for my knitting. I knit Gramma's old gull pattern no problem.
5581. Craig takes me on a date to a place I haven't been to in 15 years.
5582. Gramma's old sewing machine comes home freshly serviced. I begin sewing and sewing. We set up three sewing stations for the three of us sew-ers.
5583. Craig takes the kids to the farm.
5584. We count down the days: 20 days until baby due.
5585. And we pray to come up with a name for this little babe.