"Joey, could you kill that for me?" I say.
I gesture with my elbow to a gangly-legged spider on the sill. Betsy in arms, she nurses through the jostle. If Joe were a puppy, his ears would be perked straight up. He furrows his brow, zeros in on the spider.
"Yeah," he says. Two strides to the window, one bear-ish swipe, and he smooshes the arachnid. "Did it," he says. He pinches up the leggy remains. "Gonna throw it away," he says.
"Thanks, Joe." He's half way to the kitchen, stalled out studying the black crumple. I call after him. "You are brave," I say. He frowns, looks up, cocks his puppy head.
"'AM," he says, the monosyllable a boulder clunking from his mouth. With the seriousness of a knighting we nod.
"Yeah," I say, but really I'm just keeping time to the synchronous nodding between. "Yup," I say. That masculine matrix resounding, I memorize that face, courage unfettered.
5917. Craig makes waffles for breakfast.
5918. Joe fills his M&M wrapper with Play-Doh.
5919. Coral chair and hand-me-down-yarn.
5920. We celebrate Great-Grammie's 100th birthday. Everyone sings her favorite hymn: How Great Thou Art. Ribbons of harmony encircle us. I've always wished I could sing harmony.
5921. Yellow scrubby dishrag yarn.
5922. The mind is the lackey of the heart. I mull over John Piper's words on my morning run.
5923. We buckle down on chores. Everyone strains against the reigns of discipline and then embraces the freedom.