Lately I notice the words go by in my mind and I have lethargy, I watch the world, the hawk outside the west window and I mean just feet outside on a branch. The return of the lucky turtle we called Scar trucking across the grass. My grand daughter in her white bassinet, just her fingers and toes showing above the deep white wicker of it. The miracles are there, but like Scar they are a rarity.
Last night I cam home wondering how I could possibly cook. I was deeply tired from the joys, and true pleasure, of grandkid watching, both Galen and Kaylee. They mostly got along well, one scuffle that I intervened with my superior grandmotherly politics, and the rest of the time I was their servant. I am Jewish women raised by a combination of wolves and hired help. I treat the kids like royalty. I don't know any other way.
So by last night, ten meals between then tucked in, I had not an ounce of dinner planning or even motion left. I crashed onto the bedspread and wondered where the brownies were. I would take an edible brownie or one who wears green pointed shoes. My daughter called, wondering if they could make elk burgers on our grill. They would bring more greens to supplement my little garden's offerings. So, two of the three offspring arrived, and we ate well, tried to comfort the newcomer Kaleia who was just too tired to do her job as Baby Medicine and cure what ails us. She was the one who needed to be treated royally, and we did.
Meanwhile, the miracle of loaves and fishes and stone soup and an elk hunted by people I know and love. By the next time I stretched out again
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