Everything, is all.
This month alone: A casket kissed. A baby lost. Hot stage lights and a Gruffalo mouse. Sprinkles on a sundae. Smoke in our hair, fevered cheeks. Buttercream licked from the whisk.
Last week, a blonde six-year-old tapes paper elephant ears to a headband and tosses herself down a set of stairs. The cushions below offer a soft landing, but alas, nothing exists to lessen the blow of human limitation. Tell me I can fly, she shouts from above.
I yell until it’s true.
This is the week in which an epic marital miscommunication occurs, wherein Ken tells me he ordered a new potato scrubber, of which I didn’t know we’d ever owned. The wooden one, he says. Under the kitchen sink? and I realize at once that, for the past six years, I’ve been scrubbing our children’s boots with a breakfast apparatus.
And he, feeding our family Russets swabbed with mud and God knows what else.
It occurrs to me that this is precisely marriage: traipsing dirt all over another’s best-laid plans, hoping we live long enough to laugh of it later.
A thing to remember:
Weeks ago, I visit a class on growing and caring for apple trees. In a downtown classroom under flourescent lights, we learn of permaculture guilds, of cayenne pepper pesticides. We learn the whip and tongue graft, the secrets of scions. And when the instructor is asked how long until our new Liberty trees will yield fruit, and how much, we learn this:
“That’s not ours to know. Next question?”