The boys have off school for Labor Day. They’ve been in better spirits since they’ve gotten into the swing of the school year. They both got new school iPads with little keyboards attached.
R sits on the front porch with some neighbors, playing games. Their giggles echo from across the room, high-pitched and happy.
The goldfinches have moved in. They chirp nonstop, three notes trailing downward, then two upward, like an alarm someone forgot to switch off.
Crickets drone. The cicadas are dying. Their bodies litter the streets and crunch underfoot. Soon a killing frost will come, and the silence of winter will descend once again. To think, the span of one’s entire life dictated by the weather.
R has been wearing a bedwetting alarm since July, and hasn’t wet the bed in more than a month now. Soon we’ll have no more need for nighttime pull-ups. He still balks at brushing his teeth each evening but not as much. We no longer have to physically carry him into the bathroom. He no longer throw himself down and pretends to be hurt.
You blink and a part of your life passes and you don’t even notice until it’s gone. Where did it go? How did it get there and you here? Grief is a rabbit grazing in the distance of your perception, shy but ever present.
I need a day of rest to let the still of early autumn seep into my bones.
A coffee cake cooks in the oven, filling the air with the scent of cinnamon and caramelized sugar. The late morning sun casts parallelograms of light across the kitchen floor.
The boys go to someone’s house to trade Pokémon cards. Swirling steam rises from a mug of peppermint tea, too hot to drink. And the cake: buttery yellow crumb on a golden crust, molten sugar shell, still carrying the last of the oven’s warmth.
the skeleton club 