Myra

"Sometimes something tickles on me, and do you know what it is?" Myra chirps.

"What?" I say, the the adult world punctured by her felicity.

"Nothing." She nods. Happy discovery dispensed, she hiccups past a sack of sweet potatoes, Joey trailing behind like a synchronizes swimmer.

Later, we pray before bed.

"Please help the baby be healthy and whole," Myra prays. "And please help her to go and be a friend to me. Amen." Her quiet submission lilts lightly across the other prayers. The stillness of a request, the un-presumption, the quiet wait -- here we all wait.

Gratitude:

5639. "Maybe the fruit flies should fly to Costco 'cause there's a lot of food there," Myra says.

5640. I talk my mom into sewing a baby quilt for the new baby. Pinks and greens, old fashioned flowers, a soft cloud of a back, it's perfect.

5641. The Tuesday Girls take communion together.

5642. Craig trades his old phone in for an iPod touch so I can text for free.

5643. Craig and the kids pick buckets of Italian plums, then Craig and I can them.

5644. Rotisserie chicken wraps and Asian slaw, turn into chicken soup for a week.

5645. Lucy loses her first tooth.

5646. A vintage round frame -- my mom brings over an old wedding photo of Craig and me, perches it on the piano.

5646. The children slack off on several school subjects and then learn the good lesson of catching up during their free time.

5647. Many evenings find us dessert-less, and then Craig bring home cinnamon rolls. Bliss.