What I should probably try to chronicle tonight is how Jane, Beanie, and I came to the conclusion this morning that Plutarch is garlic. (That’s a compliment.)
But it’s late, and I only have a few minutes here, and the pieces of today that might disappear if I don’t write them down are small moments, not big conversations.
Teenagers playing Rock Band in my living room with abandon and zest; I loved that.
Rilla screaming, squealing, shrieking, scurrying the loop of kitchen and living room, daring (begging) one of our visitors—a tender-hearted eleven-year-old who is wise in the ways of big-brotherhood—to chase and chase her but never catch her.
Wonderboy “reading” to Rose and me, ten minutes on a bare title page, a long story rattled so quickly we couldn’t comprehend more than a word here and there: “letters,” “fence,” “tomorrow.” Then suddenly, mid-sentence, the book is flung aside and his arms go around me, straw head pressing my cheek. “Mmmm, I wub you!” Oh, oh, oh, catch this moment and hold it forever.
And this one too.
Um, Yeah, One of Those Will Be Fine
Yes, well, carry on, then.
Snippets, Because That’s All I’ve Got Brain For