It was after dinner. The air had thrown off its heavy summer blanket of humidity and ran bare-assed through the leaves, laughing.
Our youngest wanted to play catch and found a football. Sghetti went to join him. I followed shortly after, shoulder-pain patently shoved down deep into my hips to hold, for now.
She joined us. She hasn't practiced it. She's new and awkward and was feeling both raw and wide. We encouraged. We coached. We played it out.
“I HATE football!” and she went inside.
We called to her, one at a time, trying to coax her to us. We doubted it would work this time. It didn't.
My shoulder found the pain buried and pulled it up, fresh and hot and steaming. I excused myself from catch and went to her.
“Hey,” I eased.
“Whaaaaaat…” she rumbled.
“What would you like to do instead?”
“I don't KNOW,” she confessed.
“Why don't you go look in the garage and see what might look fun?”
And she did. And out she came with chalk and a basketball. To play four -square. She made the biggest square (and then needed more chalk.) And we played, all together. And we laughed, all together. And at the end, something was falling. Twirling. Dancing. Lilting its way earthward. Too far from an Elm or a Maple…I wandered in wonder toward…
A perfectly tiny, perfectly soft, perfectly lost moment of a Canadian goose flying south, perfectly caught moment of delight in life.
We nestled inside. We tucked our babies. We cozied and cuddled and the feather bent in the changing of pockets. Cared for and bent, better and beloved.