Grey-brown fingerprints all along the lowest part of the molding that forms the arch between the living room and “red room.” The boys have learned to leap up and grab this molding and cling to it for a minute, testing the strength in their upper arms and shoulders. It is an impressive feat that makes me marvel at the strength of my sons and also (it must be admitted) of the molding itself.
A mound of pinecones on the platform of the playset. They were collected last week by Will and Everett and friends Andrew and Peter: an arsenal for a game they didn’t get to finish playing.
The clank (clank?) of Emma’s winter jacket when I brush past it where it hangs on the newel post of the stairs. I pause. I pick it up. I can tell without opening them that both zippered pockets (both) are filled with stones.
The cords for the X-Box controllers, stretched out across the playroom floor. They make me think of entrails, I tell the boys, and ask them (again) to wind them up and (please) put them away.
An open book, face-down on the sofa, coffee table, or floor– and no child or bookmark in sight. What to do? Close it and lose the page? Find a bookmark? Or leave it to its potential fates: being sat upon, stepped upon, brushed away, or (I hope) picked up and read again….
“It will be gone before you know it. The fingerprints on the wall appear higher and higher. Then suddenly they disappear.” -Dorothy Evslin
