Signs of Life

What do you see?

A gallery of construction paper drawings, each fastened to the school room wall with several vertical pieces of tape. I have to use this many, he told me.

Dust bunnies perpetually occupying our 1920s wood floors — skin cells, hair, and clothing fibers of six people who work, play, and rest under this roof.

Dead spots in the lawn killed by storage bins of water, makeshift pools they played in on a hot May day.

Crooked stacks of books on coffee table, end table, dining table, bedside table. Books on floor and countertop, dresser and piano. We have bookshelves aplenty, but what good is a book on a shelf?

The robot vacuum that turns on at odd hours because the baby found the remote, again.

A dollar store garland of pink tissue paper flowers hung between living and dining rooms to mark a birthday, a month ago. The tallest among us have been ducking through that doorway ever since.

A pile of trimmed branches, broken fence, toddler slide, and cardboard box she calls a rain shelter. She stuck sage stems I had pruned into the ground and they sprouted to life right there in the grass. She “mows” her lawn with my shears and I am charmed by her sincere and simple joy.

An assortment of toys stashed in high places, confiscated in a moment of discipline and then forgotten. (Perhaps not the most effective strategy?)

Utterances of delight, frustration, despair, and hilarity echoing from all corners of the house at all hours of the day.

Occasional moments of quiet when all is well.

Unending dishes and laundry. Stains on my favorite shirts. Fingerprints on glass doors. Ants finding crumbs on the floor under the highchair.

We live a good life here. Messy. Alive. Together.

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