a little rain

Today the rain has come back again. Spring is nearly over.

And as I write, Eldest is flying home, which is not home here where I live, but home there where she lives now, where she has an exciting internship, money to earn, friends to make, things to learn.  This delights her, this new life opening.  And delights me, too, though with twinges.

Two months more and then summer will be nearly over.

Two months and then we can touch back together again, for a brief week together right before Eldest returns again to her real life at college, before Middlest takes wing for her new real life at college. For a week, two months from now, my chicks will all be together in one place.

Cluck, cluck.

I wish myself just that contented, though I know I’ll be distracted then, as I have been now, by the details of travel and daily meals and my own inner weather and only the morning after our various dispersals will I fully realize what is gone.

I don’t want to endure this summer living only for a brief week between the end of Eldest’s summer internship at one university and her return to her regular lab at her own university.  I don’t want to hold my breath gasping for just one brief week between Middlest’s girlhood here at home and the rest of her amazing life out in the world.  One week, even shorter than this past re-gathering, is too short a time to live a whole summer in. Too short a time to live in.  My life will not be made up of these brief weeks, but broken by them.

But why choose such a sad verb? 

Say rather, my life will be punctuated thus, with all that promised variety of orthography (:,.!?!), say rather enlarged, as if my territories, my scope for imagination were stretching wider, or enriched, so that at least my breakfast bowl will be even more full of natural goodness and crunchy sweetness than ever.

Oh, we’ve had such sun this May, everything so very green, with blooms bursting out all at once everywhere.

The sound of the rain is perfect now. Repetitive, like this plangent plaint I keep playing for you.  How I miss my daughters.  How I am so happy for them, so happy with them — even when that means without them.

The rain is the same as it’s always been, there in the background all the years of their growing up.  The price we pay for the intensity of green we live in.

I remember it even rained the days each of these lovely young women were born.  Rainy Thursdays, both of them, born under the sign of thunder. With far to go.

“We shouldn’t have worked so hard at enjoying them,” I said (but I was lying) while last evening Fritz and I watched these girls who are not girls any longer.  “Then we could just smack our hands together and give out big gusty sighs of relief that we’d finally got them off our hands.”

They were working together last evening, making matching family T-shirts. We all made them.  Only Fritz’ turned out completely satisfactory.

But YoungSon wore his today to school.  I’ll use mine for gardening, if I wear it at all.  Though I don’t need a shirt to remind me of anything that has happened here.

Only a little rain.

taking pictures 2010 – December “Thank You, Baby Born”

These are the pictures I keep coming back to: October 2010, November 2010.  Now here’s the third in the series: 

December 2010 – “Thank You, Baby Born”

I love the way the shapes of the hands reflect each other in “Thank You, Baby Born.” But it was a close choice between this and “Thank you, Swift Couriers” which I like for its inner mixed with outer — the layers of perception. I already feel nostalgic for all its soon-to-be-retro details.

Other pictures, too, still brighten my eye from this month:  “Thank you, Orange” is so very orange, “Thank you, Pillow” still looks beckoningly restful, “Thank you, Little Christmas Lights” still makes me want to have a party despite the icy puddles.