Tolliver woke up early, happy, like he'd slept on a pillow of let's-get-along, like he snuck joy for breakfast when I wasn't looking.
Tucker got up an hour or so later, bed head, bruised shins, bare feet bouncing down the basement steps.  Within minutes he was in a far off world of his own making, where magna tiles and legos and plastic tools and matchbox cars coexist.

We skipped church.

We went out back to beat the rain.  The boys turned an empty box into a boat and squeezed together inside, a piece of tinfoil attached to a stick for a sail.  They drew red chalk lines around the yard to match a treasure map and wrote messages secured in empty water bottles to toss into the sea.  They caught slugs with which to bait their fishing poles and fed each other a wide variety of fresh catches.

I worked in the kitchen with the backdoor open, aware of blind spots and of their voices, following words that blew in with soft white petals I'd have to sweep up later.
At the far edge of the driveway they summited "mulch mountain."  With a long metal stake.  Stop, please. I yelled from the door.  Put that down.  That doesn't seem safe.
Later they ran, breathless, Crocs pounding the patio: Mom, we found a really big worm.  It's black with an orange stripe.  Their commentary synchronized, We need a bucket.  I slipped on shoes, peered over their shoulders following pointer fingers and suggested it might not be a worm.

They keep me on my toes.  And on my knees.

We didn't go anywhere.  We didn't have to.  We had one of the best days -- relatively quiet, relatively calm, certainly nothing special, and yet everything was.  

1 comment:

rht said...

Do you remember the ring-necked black snake family that lived near our driveway in Georgia? ; )