Scolded for sneaking not one but two gold-wrapped chocolates from the candy dish, he stomps to his room. The windows are open to let the rain smell in and so I easily hear him–as do the neighbors, probably–wailing about the injustice of it all.
Sister comes and sits close by, questioning if the offense will cost brother dessert or tv time or both. You worry about you and let me worry about him, I remind.
Dishes are done and stacked neatly to dry. Clean laundry folded and put away. The vacuum is left standing, its cord snaking through two rooms–evidence of a housewife’s dailies.
The groan of the garage door rolling up and sister and the dog both bolt toward the sound of it. Seconds later comes the announcement she somewhere along the way started sing-songing every afternoon, Mooooooo-mmmmmmy. Your husband is home.
I fold into his open arms and draw a deep breath of him: grounding.
There is music in the kitchen and the flicker of a stubborn summer candle we’re trying to burn through to make room for pumpkin. Rain falls steady. Inside, everything is left tacky and humid but we’ll take it while we can get it.
Junk mail on the counter top. The dog at our feet again, always. A pot boils. Pencils scratch across homework pages. I peel and he chops and together we live out these golden days, right here where the rainbow ends.