Thursday at home

It was so windy today, with the gusts coming up against the windows during naptime-more mine than hers. We both woke up pink-cheeked and warm, and ready for the sisters to come home.


We barely left the house this afternoon, with one girl after the next arriving home, bringing in the cold air and stories to tell. Stories of young lives lived from eight to three, outside of the home, and outside of our family.


The rest of the day spent living our lives here together. Some sort of internal tag sale, with each sister buying up hand-me-downs from the other, that surely would have landed in their closets unbidden, once the mother-of-the-house got around to re-purposing assets.


The rest of the night trading shouts and murmurs about their day. They are barely separated throughout the day, by a few hallways and classrooms and blocks in the same town. But still, at the end of their separate days the retelling is all. The retelling is processing, turning non-events into stories, stories into memory.


And then, just as quick and violent as the gusting wind, they are all away...teeth brushed and next day clothes chosen, books open and tea warming small circular spots on their chests as they lie in bed.


And some barely stay awake to hear their song, to hear the last whispered "Goodnight, I love you."


Good night, I love you.


More tommorow. Thanks for reading.
tt