The light changed, the winds sped up, everything seemed to move so fast. Straight into summer. And somehow he seemed so much older, all of a sudden. Making news spaces – mostly under tables and in crevices between furniture – his own. Finding his own place. And his feet were now taking him everywhere, into previously-protected-places like his sister’s dollhouse, the same one I played with almost 30 years ago, that my mother made and I spent all my newspaper route money furnishing.
A few front porch pieces later, we’ve decided we’re going to have to move the dollhouse up, or out.
My craving for rhubard hasn’t subsided since it started making its appearance awhile back, and I decided to spiffy up my menu by making a pie. All for me (as there appear to be no other rhubarb maniacs in this house). I used rhubarb + stevia + lemon juice + arrowroot flour inside, with an old-fashioned whole spelt and leaf lard crust. It was amazing. And I ate every crumb.
Loving her new apron. A vintage 1950s yellow apron that someone must have spent hours (days?) embroidering.
And this poem, made up as we sneaked away for a girls-only evening constitutional.
“It is evening,
I skip through the blades of grass
Nearing a rosebush
I touch the leaf
And move on.
To a fence… I run along it
Touching the sides.
It made me smile inside, knowing – remembering – how full life can be when you are 5. When the beauty of a life is enrapturing, and nothing stands in your way. You enjoy it, and then skip right on. Because you have everything awaiting you.