a note from the past

Some days there are headaches and fights in the kitchen and long afternoons and aching hip joints and the demands of undesired (but obligatory) travel and over-browned cinnamon rolls after a series of technically inconsequential failures of performance and being that pile into one heap of miserable memory.

And some days—the same days, even—there are fingers sticky with cream cheese glaze and cartwheeling lessons in the back yard just before dusk and pancakes and climbing to the top of the swing set and a host of small moments that somehow seem to counterbalance all of the distress of existing.

Provided, of course, I bother to remember them.

We're still working on that—the remembering.