Afternoon after co-op

It’s the afternoon. The clock is ticking. The table squeaks a little as I type. The train whistles in the distance. The tracks rumble. Birds chirp. Squirrels chitter. Cars pass in a low roar. Someone honks. The sun shines. The trees blow. It’s peaceful in my house. Two children napping, one occasionally coughing. The refrigerator makes a low hum. A tree branch taps the window. My computer fan blows lightly.

A poinsettia plant sits redly on the table, along with sparkly brown nail polish and an aquamarine water bottle. A glass of whole milk sits beside me, ready for a chocolate chip cookie to be dipped in it. The books and papers and board games sit on shelves, waiting in the way only inanimate objects can, without haste or urgency or even patience. They just are. They exist. The light plays upon them in a slowly passing afternoon, slanting this way and then a bit further and then at last receding behind the trees in the distance. It’s warm enough, and cool enough, about right, not drafty, not still.

The chair I sit on is padded, with a high back I can lean on. I spent this morning teaching, reading aloud to children, and talking with other parents. Many multi-tasking moms were interwoven with many active, speaking children; the children called with shrill voices and urgent wishes, bouncing and thinking and acting on their thoughts in the moment, without stopping to consider all the details. Teens discussed intensely, with more forethought and consideration but with little depth of experience yet. It was a cacophony of sound and thoughts and ideas and emotions. I found it intensely fulfilling to influence them in some way, with laughter, with comments, with interested listening.

And now I set myself down and rest. My cup slowly refills and my brain sorts the many thoughts acquired in the morning. It is good.