With friends we ate chocolate cake; on our deck, by the beat-up pool, we sipped frothy vanilla lattes as the children ran over the green hill down to the creek and the tire swing; we laughed and the children threw themselves down the hill in wild rolling tumbles.
It was lovely.
Earlier that day we lay under the maple, leaves still tightly wound, watching clouds and the girls' faces as they flew back and forth above us like birds. . .
This also was lovely.
We washed the dishes, put away chairs and children in their proper places. And a great wind blew up, and in one ripping thunderous clap, our house blew away. The children did not stir. Martin and I held onto door frames, clutched at useless objects: a lamp, a book, a fork. The children slept soundly. The piano rolled across the living room, playing keys at random in a pattern that sounded faintly like "When the Saints" or some medley my grandmother used to sing.
The children are still sleeping. Martin has looked out the window and reported that he sees a mass of thickly growing palm fronds. The air is warmer and feels tropical. Despite the heat I have put the pot to boil. In cases such as these the only immediate solution is a cup of strong tea.
