Dusk comes early this evening, thanks to clouds and a barely there drizzle of rain. I’m rehydrating myself from an afternoon ride with vanilla tea and water. The day’s effort (a ride to Southside and back) settles in, and the tight muscles from yesterday’s work around the yard and house fade. On stereo is an old Uncle Tupelo cd, and Sandusky, the song two friends played at our wedding, is on. I’m saddened, just for a moment, thinking that we haven’t seen one of those friends in nearly two years, as he and wife (the woman who made our wedding cake) have split and he has fallen out of our world. Dinner, a pot of vegetable soup, is simmering on the stove. Its aroma, a mix of vegetable stock and garlic sauteed in olive oil, fills and wams the house.

The boy and Jen sit on the couch, each reading their own books. Sebastien’s head leans on the crook of Jen’s elbow, and emphatically points out the “Captain!” in his hockey dictionary. The living room floor is a jumble of blocks and cars and books, but that doesn’t matter right now. It might not even matter once the boy goes to bed. You get used to stepping over and around cars and trains and tools. And anyway, why put it away, when it’s just going to come out again tomorrow? There is likely a parental lesson we’re missing here, but there will be time for that another day.

The boy gets down from the couch with a jump, and he is ready for dinner — the remains of last night’s pizza from Pino’s and a few green beans. He climbs into his chair, a well-worn blue plastic high chair strapped to the chair my father gave to us. A moment later and he eating his pizza, chatting to me, to Jen, to himself.

All is well.

Posted on 8 October 2005