. . . summer. And our camping trip to the bay.
I'd like to write about making pickles and picking berries.
I could tell all about the school planning for next year, or show pictures of all the skirts and napkins I've been making. We are growing veggies, in the shade, after years of working around those trees in the yard. I want to write about these things, I want to share. But I can't. The details seem forced. It seems a little false. Because, even though everyday I do these things, cheerfully even. Because even though I love and enjoy all those things. These are not the things I am really thinking about. I am thinking about baby booties and sweaters and caps, as I knit the girls an extra set of mittens. I am dreaming, as I stretch my feet into the grass, about the belly that should be blocking my view. Truthfully, every thought is torn between my children. The ones whose sweet faces I kiss all day, the one that lives on beyond where I can mother her, and the one I pray is coming.