Gwyn’s sick, which means two nights of interrupted sleep. This morning she arrives in our dark bedroom wanting to play. I don’t. She curls up at my feet, right where the cat sleeps, and lays still for five minutes.
Snow has dusted the earth. It falls all morning in trace amounts, miniscule white thoughts moving through air.
Hot tea fills my belly.
Emily can’t wait to get to work, she loves what she’s doing so much.
Gwyn watches movies, a special treat reserved for when she’s sick. She’s snuggled under a blanket on the couch. I keep her company by cleaning out the hall desk. Stationary, old maps, coupons, manila envelopes, photos. I haven’t sorted this stuff in years. Quiet organizing calms me, as though tossing old bus schedules has a counterpart in my heart. Curious George gets himself into innocent mischief.
I show Gwyn the glitter I’ve found. Her exhausted, teary face lights up. “Can I do a craft?” she asks. She pours Elmer’s onto black paper, then sprinkles the glitter. Gold stars shine in the darkness.
The toilet upstairs hasn’t been working right for a month. To pee at night we have to go downstairs. Too cheap to hire a plumber, I’ve been in plumbing hell a few hours each night this week. This morning I run to the hardware store, where the owner knows my struggles. The connector I need is shorter than the comparable one they sell. “Buy the long one,” he tells me, “and twist it into a loop.” His easy, brilliant solution fills me with plumbing joy.
Lunch is leftover pork roast, slightly salted.
I delete dozens of emails from advocacy organizations working for gun control, just wages, GLBT rights, a healthy environment… Up against my limited time, I’m humbled by the abundance of good effort in our world.
This moment, now: The gratitude I feel writing these words.
–Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew