on the shoulder raised, elbow arched, off-beat hop of delight.

Dinner is in the oven and every window is open, welcoming fall to stay for as long as it will.   Dead center in the space where the kitchen meets the hall, she begins to build a tower with her stacking blocks.

“Are you watching me?” she asks, as if my answer will determine everything.  So clearly, I’m watching and at the top she places a picture and her toothbrush, essentials for towers, I’m sure.  Next is her signature off-beat hop, wearing one shoe, shoulders raised, elbows arched, eyes twice their lovely size.  She applauds herself and shouts,  “Yes, Hooray!”  She’s part modern day Shirley Temple and part Pippi Longstocking, with all the charm of Shirley and all the stubborn quirky fire of Pippi.

“Will you put your hands like this and clap?” she says next, never ceasing to catch me off-guard.

I am informed that this is not a tower, but a “puurade”, or as you may know it, a parade.  And that brings me to think of all things they say which I will never correct, instead hoping to collect these little bits in an indestructible time capsule for always.  You know the ones, you can add yours too, if you like.  Like, how I need to hold you is really will you hold me?  And the way her brother first said, W, that made it last for approximately 18 syllables. It’s since become regular old W, three years later, but it was marvelous while it lasted.

Sometimes, I feel like I have nothing to write, because today I drank coffee, made breakfast, washed clothes, and had a picnic in the grass, which was short lived because the bugs were extra hoppy and hungry.  We collected flowers and autumn leaves and I held these not so small creatures as we read stories about nut-brown hares, Elmo, and Jesus. We did a reading lesson and probably, I watched Friday Night Lights while my boy played a game on my phone, during naptime.  Nothing major, but everything.  I should never believe that I have nothing to write, but sometimes, I do.  For when I begin a string of words, life unravels on the page, rich with the sweet nothings of noticing and remembering. 

And now they’re dancing to that damn reindeer dog with batteries that refuse to surrender.  In the glorious September sun that casts long lines across the floor, they all sing jingle bell rock.  I think I detect a bit of quivering in the sound recording, but it’s probably wishful thinking.

 

| Linking up with Heather and all those who Just Write.|