Wishing

Dear Nora,

I wish we could pick blueberries in the warm sun more often. I wish we had stayed longer this weekend, pulling those fat, dark berries off the twiggy branches, filling your bucket and my basket, watching the bees. I wish I'd brought a snack and a blanket. There was a perfect patch of shade. I loved watching you wander farther than usual, without worrying over traffic or strangers, just seeing your pigtails bobbing out past the raspberry patch, nothing beyond your shoulders but open fields and a hilly horizon. I wish we had a space like that for you to wander, every day.

I wish I hadn't snapped at you yesterday, when you started yanking the just-folded laundry off the couch. I didn't understand that you were trying to "clear a spot for playing," the way we do all day. How could you know that laundry pile was different from all the messes around the house? Your chin trembled so bravely, for so long. It made me wonder how often you swallow tears, frustrations, and fears these days, without any of us noticing. I'm glad I saw it yesterday, and that I hugged you, and told you you're doing a good job, and that I was sorry for yelling.


I wish I'd gone ahead and pulled the couch cushions onto the floor to make a jumping spot. Instead, I lured you off the bed (where you were leaping, repeatedly, pretending to be "a little breeze jumping into a pond"), nervous that you'd fall. I brought you into the kitchen for lunch. Granted, I cut your quesadilla into squirrel-shapes with our favorite cookie cutter. Then we made blueberry cake. But I wish I'd taken a few minutes to just tear apart the house for you. I wish I'd been a little breeze, and jumped with you. I guess what I really wish is that there was more time in the day.

I wish I could have more than two days in a row with you. By Sunday afternoon, we've just found our rhythm. By Sunday afternoon, I've got everybody's shoes put away, I'm just ahead of the tidal wave of dishes, we all have clean underwear. If we're lucky, the groceries have been freshly stocked, and we've had pancakes at least once. By Sunday afternoon, I'm starting to breathe, to slow down and notice. I've noticed you watching me as I drink my milk from my cereal bowl, and I've watched from the corner of my eye as you carefully bring your own bowl to your lips. I've realized that the reason you kick off your shoes and leave them in front of the door is because I do that, too. By Sunday afternoon, I've started hinting around about flying monkies and Wicked Witches when you ask for your "Dorothy stories" -- and I've determined that you might be OK with a less-censored version of Oz. I've almost caught up to you by Sunday, Nora.

Not that anyone can ever capture a beam of light.