And Martin just finished his killer schedule of early morning classes at the shipyard, so he is home on holiday for a couple days. He steals moments at the piano if he can find it free from Elspeth--or they both play together.
My in-laws are here--all seven of them, and while this registers panic for many people, it is truly a joy. I am not saying that to earn more crowns in the afterlife. I love sitting on the porch with my mother-in-law, chatting, lingering around the kitchen table for hours over coffee and tea, even popping to the grocery store with Martin's dad. I love to see my kids with their far-away Texas cousins, here at last among the dappled shade at the park.
I baked a rhubarb cake this afternoon. It did not turn out as fluffy and wonderful as my mother's cake, though I used her recipe, but it is good--an acquired taste, I think, from watching the kids' faces as they chewed. But perhaps all things from your childhood that you loved best, like my mother's rhubarb cake, will never be replicated? Perhaps my children's memories of running down a cracked sidewalk among roses to the park, and the thump of their cousins' feet behind them, and the mountains in the evening rising above them even when they never notice--perhaps those will be sweet, lovely memories.
Rhubarb, oh, rhubarb, oh, rhubarb cake!
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