Friday morning Tre gets on a plane to spend two weeks with his aunt and uncle. He's going to be working for them, and he's just thrilled.
His brothers, who just got him back from the clutches of school, are not so thrilled. Raphael swings back and forth between fawning on him and bitterly accusing him of terrible injustice. Max has been stomping around all day, millimeters away from tears, insisting nothing is wrong.
He will be missed.
This morning I got up before everyone (except Clay, who had already been working for over an hour when I got up so early), so I could make popovers. The boys love popovers, but they're a pain in the butt to make and clean up after, so they know they signal a special occasion. I even made a batch of pomegranate jelly, because it is Raphael's favorite and we've been out forever and he doesn't get to go with Tre and...
Well, anyhow, I made jelly too. Before breakfast.
Sophia helped with the popovers, too.
Mom came over, because she also loves popovers, and breakfast was raucous. There was much laughter, and no popovers left, and then in a blink of the eye, the kitchen was empty, except for the mess.
I sat in the silence, surrounded by the remains, and thought. I seem to have become that woman, that mother who is forever preparing something for someone to eat. I wouldn't say that it's my favorite thing to do, but it's become so much a part of me that too much time out of the kitchen leaves me with nervous hands. The work of battling hunger and entropy is mine.
I used to think that women like that - women like me - were sort of sad. Self-sacrificing, and not in an interesting way. But now I see that they knew something all along, something I'm only starting to know. Life surges in, and just as quickly evaporates. From where I stand, elbow deep in the details of the day, I see it all pass by.
It all passes in a moment, and it's a privilege to be here.