Yesterday it rained. Blake and Abi played outside in the backyard for hours, setting up the new swing set. I'd open the door to coax them inside and instead of soggy faces I'd see cheerful smiles. Blake and Abi, drenched and pink, happily assembling together. That was yesterday. The day it rained and even though I can no longer distinquish the days by the rain, I can now distinguish the rain by the days. It was soft and steady, the day so full of silvery trickles and muted backyard laughter.
Gwen woke up from her nap still warm and with a head full of sleepy hair. We nestled on the couch, her yellow quilt around us and after moments of snuggling her breathing slowed to a whisper. I can't remember the last time I held her asleep in my arms. What a delicious treat.
I distinctly remember the last time I nursed Gwen, bundled up in the old house watching a movie with Abi. I had known it was the end. She seemed so plump and healthy in my arms. An almost girl.
Yesterday I watched the familiar skies. The rain that fell like it always does. I held my big (little) girl and wondered how much longer we'd have for things like this. I will miss that hot breath on my neck. There is such a closeness that exists when the children are still soft and rounded, before they grow sharp knees and elbows.
A hour it seemed had passed when the door blew open with Abi and Blake in it. Instantly there were wet soles and the sounds of the sloughing of coats. Gwen startled awake and crawled off of my lap to explore the excitement in the mud room.
I lingered on the couch a minute longer, still holding the quilt, the imprint of a tiny hand upon my cheek.