I’m sitting in the hub of our home, the kitchen, easily my favorite room in the house because it’s a feast for the senses–colorful, cheery and full of life. Scattered around my laptop is an array of papers and bills, strips of curled paper from envelopes torn, the pair of forgotten-on-my-head sunglasses I intended to leave in the car. A quieted cell phone, a gift for a friend, and displaced chairs that should be pushed under the table sit to my left and the right.
The wall to my left is a three-paneled window, 54 squares framing our backyard. There’s a dance of yellow jackets just beyond the patio–I never noticed them dance before. They’re busy and quick and seem happy about their business–and I scribe a mental note to warn the rest of the family they’re there. I’d hate for them to discover them "by accident".
I’m sure if I were outside, I’d hear their companion buzz; instead I hear the drone of the air conditioning unit; at the top of the stairs, I hear brothers at play. No electronics, no fighting, just little boy conversation, unaware anyone is listening. Their laughter dances in the air much like the yellow jackets outside.
Closer to me, I hear "The Bachelorette"; it’s recorded. My teen daughter just discovered it a few weeks ago and although she’s amused and critical, she’s compelled to watch the contrived love story unfold. I suppose every girl wants to believe in fairy tales.
And, then this ordinary moment passes, like so many others before it, and I wonder will I remember "these" when they’re over.