There was a dinner plan. The spinach was thawing in its pie plate on the counter; the grocery stop would only take a minute. We would be eating (after the soccer game) by 6:30.
And then the plan was changed: Bill and I would go out; the kids would be eating at home. And so the spinach went back in the freezer. Another meal– a smaller one– was readied on the stove. Bill would be home any minute, and then we would leave.
Of what consequence was the dead battery in the cell phone? It was charging now. No problem.
Except that it meant I had missed his message: the plans changed Yet Again. We also would be eating at home.
I was annoyed.
I left in a small tempest for the grocery store: I just needed to get out for a minute; I would be fine; this was stupid. But knowing it’s stupid doesn’t always mean I can do anything about it. Mind over matter is excellent in concept.
The sun was in the middle of its mid-spring descent. It was filtering through leaves compliant to light and breeze alike. My family was all at home together. We had nothing on the calendar for this one night in all the nights of this week.
I remembered the salmon and made a u-turn.
So dinner was fine after all. I turned the steamed broccoli into a salad. I heated the croquettes. I discovered that leftover whole wheat pasta (so small a quantity) could be turned very nicely into an alfredo. Who knew?
Delicious.
And after dinner (I declared. It was just for a little while. We had only one night this week) a walk. With the dog. And all five of us. Yes, you have to go.
We made a stop at the trampoline, and Everett had to sweep it clear with the kitchen broom before doing his back flip. Will stood by with the camera. One try, another. Shots missed or flips not quite landed and nobody (not really, not this time) impatient. Emma did cartwheels on the grass. Will got a good picture.
And then out the gate and down the path, the sun (still) making its late spring descent, the dog thrilled (thrilled) for a second (second!) walk in one day, all five of us together.
Bill is training the dog to walk beside him. He leaves the leash alone, and it drags along behind the dog. She doesn’t notice it. Mostly she listens. But that rabbit came out of nowhere and she was off after it, immune to our calls and scolding. She disappeared behind the stranger’s house.
We stood, waiting. Occasionally calling. Bill wasn’t happy with her. Everett thought she might catch the rabbit. Emma thought the rabbit was cute. I thought about Watership Down. Will said this was a long walk.
The dog returned and submitted to her correction. We all agreed that, really, she is a very good dog. We continued our walk. Emma climbed on Everett’s back; Will walked with his arm around my shoulder. All of us talked about girls.
Emma declared she likes our neighborhood. It’s got so many trees, she said. It does. I said the scent in the air reminded me of Switzerland. Bill said the dog mostly does a good job of walking right next to him. He is right.
Will said he didn’t much like this route we were taking because the second half meant walking on the street. And then there we were, coming up the grassy hill from the walking trail, making the hard left, walking on the street.
We’ve lived in our house for fourteen years. If I had a dime for every time I’ve driven this stretch of road! The dog delayed, sniffing at some mulch near a mailbox.
Emma said she’d like to get a hedgehog. A small one, she said. I took a silent inventory: one dog, two cats, a fish. Bill told her she could have a hedgehog if they are edible. If it can fit in the microwave, he said. Or a cooking pot. I said she could have a hedgehog if it would eat dog fur. I would love to get a pet that would eat dog fur. And poop gold, Bill said. Emma was offended and also laughed. She would own a small zoo if you offered it.
The boys were ahead of us. They were talking, and already I don’t remember what it was they were talking about even though it was only two days ago. The sun was nearly finished for the day and Everett, the ninja, rolled down the grassy hill near the path by our house.
He said he got grass in his eyes.
The world smelled newly mown. Emma considered rolling down the hill, wondered momentarily about grass stains on her soccer uniform, and rolled anyway. I was pleased. She also got grass in her eyes.
Will said he did not want to roll down the hill because he did not want grass in his eyes.
Almost home. Everett ran and the dog ran with him. Will ran. Emma, too. Walking with my husband, watching them disappear, I admired our children aloud. Bill said that they aren’t really children anymore, which is true. But by another definition, they will always be our children, isn’t that so? Even when they are grown-ups? Even in their forties? Even, someday, in heaven?
But it will not always be April 23, 2013. Indeed, it no longer is. It will not always be that Tuesday, the night I overcame my inability to control something even so small as the evening meal and went for a walk with my family, the only night in that week of nights that we were all of us home together.
Here’s a small effort to remember it.
