I’m propped up in bed, freshly showered, wearing my soft cotton strawberry shortcake pajamas.
Through the open window I can hear the kids throwing darts. (I hope not at each other.)
Directly below me, my husband is rattling and thumping about. He picked four five-gallon buckets of tomatoes this evening and is now laying them out on the shelving we’ve set up in the downstairs bedroom that is not a bedroom.
Tomorrow morning I’ll turn the ripest of the tomatoes into salsa.
The juicer is simmering on the stove top and a half dozen quarts of juice are cooling on the counter.
Most days, I make something with tomatoes and something with grapes, but it’s piecemeal so there is no rending of garments and tearing of hair involved.
It’s nice.
This evening, my sister-in-law dropped off a bushel of crispy-crunchy apples, and the boys and I finished mulching the flower beds.
The days now are thinner, sharper.
Soon there will be dark, slow mornings, cider and donuts, mountains of library books, and fires in the woodstove.
(Written last evening, while the crickets chirped.)
