And now: two-thirds.
If the calendar can't convince me, the temperature will. It's chilly enough to close the windows tonight. And Juliette starts preschool tomorrow. Summer is almost over.
The last month has been a whirlwind of activity. I'm kicking myself for not making the time to write things down, but the whirlwind just went so quickly. We entertained friends, visited with grandparents, read books, fed the ice cream maker (and, in turn, ourselves) an entire gallon of heavy cream, washed diapers, harvested tomatoes, hung out with neighbors, visited the zoo, took train trips to the city, hosted houseguests (five Dillows for one night, and one Lara for five nights), and put the already outgrown newborn clothes away. Oh, and the girls and I took an entirely unplanned road trip to Ohio, where all the cousins on the Willis side were united. (You can't really say reunited, as two of them didn't exist the last time we were all in my parents' backyard.) Then, just when I thought things might start slowing down, I received my book manuscript from Chalice and have been stealing moments here and there to work on revisions.
I may not have captured all the details before they faded away, but I take solace in the knowledge that I have been deeply present during this season, and so grateful for the gifts of time, food, friends, and family. Several times I've thought of this passage by Laura Ingalls Wilder:
"When the fiddle had stopped singing Laura called out softly, "What are days of auld lang syne, Pa?"
"They are the days of a long time ago, Laura," Pa said. "Go to sleep, now."
But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa's fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind in the Big Woods,…
She was glad that the cozy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago."
Now is now.
Genevieve at one month old, in my Pa's lap