"Joey, don't forget to give me a little bite of it," Myra says.
Myra bobs behind me as I whisk through the house. Blankets and pajamas, mismatched socks, the bathroom rug, a rumpled quilt -- vestiges of a flu bug spill from the laundry. I step around a stack of dirty clothes, but Myra stays behind.
"Joe-Joe, don't forget," she whispers in chime-voice.
Joey, spectacle-of-the-morning, stayed dry all night, and as per usual, had claimed his candy treat. Reeces there, smeared around his lips, he halts.
"Myra, you're sick," I say. Everyone stops, including me now wheeled around watching them. Willowy red-head, blue eyes blank as the empty sky, blink-blinks back at me.
Then, as if to mitigate disaster, Joe snaps the Reeces in half, gestures to Myra.
"Here, that mean her not sick," he says. Medicine. Love is medicine.
Joe almost always gives half of his candy to Myra.
5898. I begin knitting baby booties. The first two flop. The third is looking good.
5899. Craig takes me on a Mother's Day date. There in the Mexican restaurant I fix in my mind the ochre yellow and sky blue of the walls, the cinnamon horchata. Then we run errands. Perfect.
5900. The children make me Mother's day cards.
5901. Craig buys me a peony.
5902. I begin playing chess again.
5903. Yarn new, new yarn. I rub the soft skeins against my face.
5904. Craig stains the garden arbor and the new dresser he made.
5905. Life settles into a fresh and gentle rhythm, something new.