The sunlight streams in and makes shadows play on Tiffany blue walls as she babbles from the crib.
My LittleMan wanders in, so long and lean and toasted sesame skin. So many hints to the handsome man he will become, but enough of the sweet swell of cheek that I still see my baby. We snuggle together, an occasional furry friend jumping up to join us on the bed to get in on the love.
Daddy comes in then, fresh smelling and ready for work in one of my favorite outfits. But he joins us, sharing kisses and blowing raspberries and chatting easily about my next not-so-fiendish plot.
And then he's off, just a short drive down the road, and we are out to the kitchen. She fists Cheerios, wrapping a clenched fist around each one. Most will be found in the bottom of the chair after I get her out, a pile of wheat O's that have amnesty for another day. I put on a little coffee and make my famous breakfast: two bowls, slowly partitioning the decadent Greek yogurt into each, dousing cinnamon and dried orange peel onto the white waves before drizzling sweet amber honey ribbons. A handful of blueberries, some sliced frozen strawberries, a sprinkle of multi-grain cereal...
Onto the table they go, these masterpieces. And he eats his enthusiastically. "Yummm, the honey is so perfect. Ummm, great amount of cinnamon." He is profuse with his praise, hilarious in his commentary. I agree with him, as I sneak in bites of my own in between the coordinated spoon dance of rice cereal and sweet potatoes that she allows.
Jazz plays from the local public radio station as he looks through the book I got out yesterday for inspiration. Sister Wendy and her 1000 art masterpieces joins us at the table as he pages through and we talk about Van Gogh, and history, and Texas. We still miss Texas, that alien place that became home. The friends and comforts that we left behind, the sweet memories of Kindergarten that are already drifting like dust in the sunlight in our mind.
A song comes on now, "Mercy, Mercy, Mercy," and I realize I've played it before, long ago, in the days of awkward middle school jazz bands. Even then, my husband was there, all neck and legs, and floppy hair, and trombone. So many life times ago, yet all leading to this life.
And I am lucky. So very lucky that it takes my breath away.