Friday, June 7, 2013


I thread the stalks and leaves through the tomato cage to straighten the plant.  The smell remaining on my hands reminds me of Dad's garden and summertime.

Starting on the eve of Memorial Day and then the whole day itself, I thought of Grampa Clark.  Last year at the annual picnic he sat there with a spangly cowboy hat atop his head.  This year he's been gone almost ten months.

I hear Hattie coo, converse, and communicate in a language I feel is real, but I'm not fluent in.  She reminds me of heaven.

Almost daily I'm reminded of how much I miss the close connection I had with Heather when we only lived a nine-minute run away from each other.  Nothing in particular has to trigger that.  I simply miss our boys playing so easily and comfortably with each other and miss sitting and talking with her.

Cool gray mornings, like today's, remind me of Ukraine--one word to encompass faces, moments, and more from my time there.

I pull on a tee-shirt, triathlete emblazoned across my chest.  I got it five years ago; it reminds me of the different seasons of my life.  Swimming, running, and biking (triathloning) enraptured me in that season.  Now exists a softer season.  My body is softer from growing my children, and hopefully my heart is softer too.

As I sit and read books with Eamon, I think of my mom.  There she is, years ago, sitting in the hallway light.  She reads and reads aloud as I fight sleep to hear just one more word.