The Egg Dish

"Soooo, are you attached to this?" Craig says. He hold up a serving dish, little egg indentations around the plate's perimeter. It's painted in six-year-old script, Jane's.

"Uhmmm," I say.

"'Cause I'm NOT," he says. I'm sitting on a plastic food bin, the two of us in front of the pantry, miscellaneous, boxes, bags, and cartons stacked around us.

"Wellll," I say, "I'm not really either, but I'm not sure how to get rid of it." I smile with my teeth, blink-blink.

"I'll let YOU have that conversation with Jane," he says.

"Wellll," I say, "maybe we could just break it. Not really." I grimace.

"Here," he says. "Jaaaane, come here." From the kitchen a spoon clanks. Jane appears. "Hey Jane," he says, "are you attached to this?" He holds up the dish, rubs his finger in one of the little indentations.

"No," she says.

"Oh," I say. Craig looks at me. I look at him.

"I was just sort of waiting around for it to break," she says.

"Oh," I say.

"OH," Craig says. We split grins; giggles spill out our cheeks.

"I guess we were too."

In that moment, I realize again what my momma always says: It's not the things that matter; it's the time spent together. It's one of my favorite things about her. Things are just things.





Gratitude:

5953. Fresh basil, the biggest, hugest hand-sized leaves of fresh basil.

5954. A few staples: garbanzos, fish sauce, ginger ale, and tiny peanut butter cups. Manna.

5955. Linen for a baby blanket.

5956. Quilt batting.

5957. Fabric dye, navy blue, apple green, apache black.

5958. By miracle we retire the old hole-y living room couch for a new-to-us perfect couch. The whole house feels brand new.

5959. Raspberries fresh picked by Craig and the kids.

5960. Betsy starts trying to dress herself.

5961. We earmark more things for a garage sale.

5962. Small efforts in organization: quilts folded in size order, toys corralled to a bin, budget paperwork marked and filed, the pantry reset.

5963. The children help Craig at work. Manual labor, they come home exhausted and happy.

5964. A clean kitchen sink fills the kitchen with pleasure.

5965. Each of the kids grow a little more opinionated and a little more kind. It's better than fine dining or expensive clothes. Confidence sprouts when we're not even looking.

5966. July lulls unexpectedly cold, the smell of cool rain, evening breeze.

5967. We await the arrival of a brand new niece.

5968. Jack gives me a daily tour of his garden, each leaf worthy of inspection.

5969. "I've missed you," he says after helping Craig all week. "I could just talk to you for hours," he says. Me too.

5970. Each night closes like a long sigh. Goodness encloses the moments.