The jars are empty. The freezer is paltry.
So much for preserving the harvest.
There is always next year.
This year there is a baby sleeping on my chest and the boy who should be napping is reading to himself in bed. And there is a jar of cream in the fridge and rain outside and apple crisp in the oven and books lying about everywhere. I am well and Reed is well and Helen and Adam are well and we are together and it is raining. Our home is feeling like itself, again.
Happy harvest, happy Sunday,