She: Ending her sentences in a high-pitched whisper, like there’s a surprise, like she’s a rainbow, her final words a pot of gold. Fighting the afternoon nap. Favoring cashews. “Reading” from my devotional at night in our bed, substituting Psalms verses for monster encounters. Memorizing iPhone passwords. Hacking said iPhones, taking 3,000 photos on said iPhone cameras. Naming her stuffed koala “Judes My Husband or Gokey or Plop Plop.” Twirling, somersaulting, radiating.
He: Juggling a lot, per usual, with a great attitude, per usual. Toddler whispering. Kitchen conference call pacing. Hair growing. Jack-of-all-trading: snapping photos, editing films, researching vaccines, cooking fried potatoes: the plumber, the butcher, the renovater, the fire-maker.
Me: Traveling quite a lot for work, and feeling the guilt, even though I know I shouldn’t feel the guilt. Cooking bacon on Saturday mornings with “A Groovy Kind of Love” on repeat. Reading Joan Didion, lots of it. Saying no. Wearing leather high top sneakers. Planning a family Ecuador trip in August. Ordering more Play-Doh. Awaiting good news, and the sun.