Good times were family walks and candlelit dinners.
Waiting for papa by the window, little hands lovingly making more greasy fingerprints on it, faces lighting up when papa’s bike came into view. And then we’d all rush outside, one boy on the saddle and one boy on the carrier, they’d ride into the shed. Afterwards there would be supper, maybe bathtime, and bedtime would be snuggly and warm and bedtime songs were sung.
Good times where taking walks in the rain with two excited little bouncing balls holding their own umbrellas, jumping in the puddles.?It was friends coming over all the way from Tennessee and Australia and staying for a good long time, having do-you-remember marathons.
Taking walks together with friends and sisters, which is actually the same thing, and our bunch of little people running and climbing around.
It was Christmas in my parents house and their Christmas tree, because theirs?is the king of all Christmas trees. No matter how many times I tell my dad that ours is better.
It was a cup of hot tea and a book and a blanket on the couch, sewing a new dress and not messing it up.
A baby snuggled in the bed between us, warm and soft and kissable.?Flowers growing from the seeds I planted when it was still cold outside, sweet corn with lots of butter and salt, harvested from our very own garden.
A rainbow in the sky, and the delighted screams ?of two little boys who see an airplane flying. As if they had never seen one?before.
A new book and an old book and snowflakes outside.?The smell of fresh cookies and donuts and hot chocolate.
Leave a Reply