Blurred photos. I knew they would be, but it didn't stop me from taking them.
My Mom (79 years old) makes dinner for the entire family every Monday night since my Father died over six years ago. My brothers and their wives come over after work, their children come over after school. It is a celebration for no other reason than to be together.
Around six in the morning my Mom woke me up saying we had to get a movin' because we had a dinner to make for seventeen. Six-in-the-morning... dinner. Growing up in a large rural family meals were the main topic of the day, even now.
We made casseroles, salads, mashed potatoes, fruit salads, vegetables... desserts.
Outside the children played aged fourteen to seven. They reminded me of the years children have played outside in my Mother's yard, in the fields, around the barn, down the lane... Races had, scraped knees, picnics, hide and seek, kick the can, bikes that turned into motorcycles... They played followed the leader as I watched through the dining room window as if it were a TV screen.
Imagination is a gift.
Unrobbed childhood is a gift.
Being loved is a gift.
A coconut pie, cookies in the cookie jar and cinnamon puffs sat on the sideboard nobody snitched. I remarked at that miracle, "I would have, I did."
They have such manners, sometimes.
I sat, watched them, laughed that laugh that speaks volumes of happiness. There is no other place I would rather be... outside of Yann's arms and my children's embrace.
Happiness in the moment. Kids running around in a circle, viewed through a window and yet it felt like a group hug instead.
A round and a round we go where we will stop nobody knows.
