A blue jay sits in the spruce boughs. The washing machine hums as it scales Mount Washmore. A half dozen boisterous kids play dominoes and cut paper and sew material and clack the long needles.
I’m standing in the kitchen with the dishes stacked and the floors fallen and scattered and all the world on a decided, marvelous tilt.
Dress-up clothes and balloons and mittens and recipe books and pins and needles congeal and wiggle and set in the mold of this place….
