I was eating lunch and was suddenly struck by the perfect pattern in the skin of my heirloom tomato. The picture doesn't really do it justice. There is something fragile and beautiful about the detail that no one will ever really notice. That has always impressed me about this world. So much that was created in it has nothing to do with us humans.
Incidentally, I'm really going to miss delicious tomatoes when this season is over.
I am preserving pumpkin, scraping the soft flesh from the delicate skin. I grew the pumpkins myself, the first year I've had success with pumpkins. I am not so secretly giddy about it. About a week ago, my daughters helped me cut our first harvest, two large, galaxy-shaped pumpkins, and three smaller globe pumpkins. Gradually, I am baking and freezing them. They will eventually become soup and pie, brownies and cookies.
My daughters have been gone for three days. Sometimes, the time without them goes quickly, other times it feels like forever. I miss them terribly. Having a house stay clean effortlessly and experiencing quiet for a change never makes up for the pure life that fills the room when they are around.
I am nervous. They are about to come back, and I feel giddy as a teenager waiting a call from a boy she likes. How will they be? Happy, sad, tired? Will they be okay? Healthy? Will I be ready for them?
My heart leaps into my throat as I hear the click of the doorknob turning. The patter of feet hit the hardwood floor. "MOMMY!" I turn and catch little bundles of energy, feeling arms wrap around my neck and faces burrow into my shoulder.
My life is complete again.
