The other night when the thunderstorm came and the lightning-bolts crashed overhead and made me a little frightened, and I took the box of kohlrabi, kale, bok choy, cauliflower, broccoli, and heirloom tomato seedlings out to the freshly turned raised beds and planted each one secure, the rain at first cold and uncomfortable but soon as natural-feeling on my skin as a cool shower, my yoga pants stretching soggily longer and longer, my glasses fogging under Tim's baseball cap, mud under my feet and all the froggies in the neighborhood peeping joy, I almost started to write to you about it.
The past few days, I almost began to write to you about how when Cedar has a cold, he naps so very often, and before each nap I nurse him to sleep and see that he is so comforted and so safe and I feel his body grow heavy and soft like the most delicious thing I will ever hold. I thought about how fast he is growing up and I watch people's reactions to him as they relive their own children's extinct childhoods and I am so thankful I have not yet passed through his.
When we walked down the canal path yesterday, slowly, with Cedar bumping along gently in his stroller, and watched the turtles duck into the moss, the herons flap shyly away, the kingfisher perch bluely and chatter irritatedly at us, smelt the honeysuckle and heard the wingbeats of the bald eagle we almost didn't see sitting in the dead tree as he flew right overhead, my arm rising to point as my voice stuttered Tim-tim-tim!, I almost wrote about it to you. About how we ended up at the farm, a little sun-kissed and pretty thirsty, where I bought herb seedlings, purple salvia and coral lantana and thought about my grandmother growing up on her farm and how I was happy that Cedar was growing up in the country.
When I looked out the window and saw the red-bellied woodpecker holding his own against the five blue jays while the downies and the flicker waited in the tree for their turn at the feeder filled with homemade suet smelling so good I could almost eat it myself, made from months of Tim's saved bacon grease and peanut butter and which hardly lasts a day or two, I wanted to tell you about it. About how the blue jays fly in with superhero capes and bold spirits to gulp beakfuls with a flourish while the downies creep up the back of the trunk to gorge unseen.
Last week I almost began writing to you when we took Cedar to the prothonotary to apply for his passport for our July trip to the Ontario cabin, and he first had to get his picture taken at CVS and cried for the first three pictures until another customer held up a stuffed ladybug and sang a bit and we got a little grin above super pudgy cheeks for the picture he will have in his passport for the next five years.
When I saw Tim sitting on the porch surrounded by the flotsam of our busy days and not doing anything but quietly watching the front yard and all the subtle happenings that occur there, and I was filled with admiration, I wanted to write to you about it.
But I didn't write to you about any of these things. There wasn't time. Then.