On the table, Harper waits patiently for his breakfast with sleepy eyes and watercolors - a stack of finished pictures at his side (including the one titled "Mama with a Big Face"). Adelaide joins with a horse tucked under her arm and a costume book by which she's planning her halloween attire that she'd like to sew today. Annabel prefers her fingers to the spoon for oatmeal. I forgot the flour in the dutch baby (yes, there are only three ingredients), but so far, no one has mentioned it. Last night's basket of eggs still sits at the end of the table, and an empty harvest basket waits for a break in this morning's rain to gather the rest of the beans for freezing. There are flowers. Frente is on the iPod. And there is tea with honey, lemon and ginger for all as a summer cold has taken up residence in all of our lungs. My pile - a book, some knitting, a journal - remains as evidence of the quieter moments my day began with.
As the kettle whistles, oatmeal cooks and eggs bake, slowly they make their way into the kitchen on this sleepy, dark, rainy morning - one by one, youngest to oldest, as happens to be the order today.
And in this way, and at this table, our day together begins.
(Last time, at the table.)