The weekend starts and ends with dessert – an apple galette and two glasses of wine. Pita chips dragged through pillows of hummus. Soda water with rhubarb bitters that goes down cold and tickles your nose.
On Saturday it’s caramel apples and cider and ginger beer. It’s a harvest festival and the season is sweet. Spin a wheel and win some flowers. Take a picture, give a kiss.
Your daughter pinballs between her favorite activities – markers and goats and fistfuls of hay. She digs in sawdust for tiny treasures. An orca whale, the size of her thumb.
Sunday is burgers and salads and piles of rice. Strawberries and ice cream with chocolate eclairs. You remember that time in France, where you sat in the train station eating pastries, the pigeons picking for crumbs at your feet. The fall is your favorite time to see new things, and the desire bubbles deep in your heart.
It will be time to travel, soon. Time to follow the moon across the world, to stand and watch the night sky with blood pumping in your veins. To feel the earth, the everything, humming along to this tune.
But you turn your attention back to your arms, where you hold a baby against your heart. Feel the soft fuzz of his hair, the warmth of him as he squirms against you. Cherish this, but know it is not your path, not now. There are dreams to build, castles to furnish. You are making your own momentum. You are growing, turn by turn.