In this world, mapped with sorrow, there is joy, flashing like sudden light off a window. It blinds me sometimes.

Mostly there are everyday moments of working, cleaning, sitting and rising, the talk, laughter and complaints of the children, the daily hum of routine: brushing teeth, showering, carrying plates from the kitchen table to the counter. There are little eddies of stress and fury, of disbelief in the craziness of my children. . .Oh, no, you DIDN'T. . . .

and then there are moments of wonder, like last night when I looked out of the upstairs window and saw our groundhog and our racoon perusing the brush pile together as if they were old pals out for a night on the garden, or the girls brushing our big stuffed lion's mane and loading him with bows just like Dandelion, or Bea finally falling asleep, swiftly and mercifully, after crying all evening. And too, there are moments of gratitude, like the first blast of hot water on the back of my tired neck, a cup of tea sipped hot instead of luke-warm, the flame of a candle in the evening, a familiar and welcome face unexpectedly at our door.

Ah, the days are too short. I drove up with a friend to the next county to pick up bushels of MacIntoshes and Johnnygolds and the trees and brush sang out that this world of ours is toeing the edges of summer, applying its last makeup and about to whirl out onto stage in full costume, no rehearsals anymore, and I was surprised. Is October really almost here?