Sunday

Photos courtesy of Urban Rose. 

"Mommy, are you gonna see me on stage?" Lucy asks. Frays of hair frame her face. Baby orange in hand, she pops a wedge in her mouth.

"Yeah," I say.

"Mommy's gonna be there for the nine o'clock," Craig says. He grins, clatters a crate of apples on to the counter.

Photos courtesy of Urban Rose. 

I stare at Lu. She stares at me.

"He's probably just joking," she says. The last time I made it to the nine it was a different decade.

The week spindles by. It finds Myra and me at the kitchen table, elbows slung out, the remains of dipping cookies next to empty tea cups.

"There are actually three people here," Myra says.

"Yeah?" I say.

"Yeah, there's me, and you, and my blankie-boy." She pats a well-loved bunch of blue fluff, draped over my shoulders. She snuggles blankie up around my neck.

"Yep," I say.

Photos courtesy of Urban Rose. 

"I don't care that he's not a person," she says. "It says BOY in blankie-boy. And he kinda looks like a boy." She pats my shoulder. I nod, my eyes carrying her like an ocean for a ship. She sashays off, blankie encircling me.

Sunday finally dawns. By some miracle, I make it to the nine o'clock service.

The children sing, the spinning wheel of a week pivots forward. Momentum finds us like blue fluff tucked in around the collar, a blanket of comfort as present as a person.

Photos courtesy of Urban Rose.  

Gratitude:

5564. Navy sheets to back the latest quilt.

5565. Coconut milk, lemon soap, peppermint all purpose cleaner, white balsamic vinegar, a trip to the store and all cleanliness ensues.

5564. Pizza night. We take half the pepperonis of a store bought pizza and make a second night of homemade pizza.

5565. Nutmeg logs, our favorite Christmas cookie.

5566. The Children's Choir.

5567. "Can we make a calendar of when I should shower?" Myra asks.

5568. We race into the last week of school with anticipation for the Christmas celebration.

Photos courtesy of Urban Rose.