Three sisters in tanks play at my feet. Books scatter the floor. Sandals lazily kicked off hide among toys for girls spanning 5 years of age.
Coffee is hot this morning, for productivity. I feel more grown up with hot coffee. Like I can easily conquer the 5 loads of laundry that wait to be folded.
Always the laundry.
Summer came early in Oregon and I could die of happiness. Something special about that Oregon sun. Never taken for granted.
Three girls play and my heart swells. Laundry can wait. I’ll stay and watch a little longer.
The littlest with her ear infections and Stevie Wonder dance, the middle with all that sass and a chipped tooth, and the firstborn with limitless energy. The three with so much love. Trio of sisters who always ask for a baby brother, who insist I’m carrying one even now.
Not yet anyway.
I don’t want to lose this craft, this writing. I haven’t practiced in months. Mind space and creative energy dedicated to three littles, the handsome man, and the taking of photos. Life too big to put into words, too sacred for such a public space.
Maybe instead, a practice of writing simple rituals.