the kitchen in early september


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,



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