Unloading the dishwasher, again. Dishes in, dishes out. Her body made the same familiar, mindless motions every evening. On this evening children played in the backyard, their laughter audible through the open kitchen window as the ran through the grass long in need of mowing.
The screen door opened, screeched in its track, then closed with a bang. Her oldest stood before her with a toothy grin, but for the empty space, front and center, thrusting a handful of dandelions to her mother with love. Accepting the gift, she bent to the cupboard to release the childproof latch and noticed, beyond them, her middle child heading down the hall to the bathroom, quite capable of toileting on her own for well over a year now. The latch gave way, and she reached past the silver candy dish, past the crystal bud vase, in search of the short squat vase, perfect for very short-stemmed blooms. As she filled the vase with water she heard another door open and close– the door to the garage?
She plopped the sunny yellow weeds into the vase and called out, “Simogne, what were you doing in the garage?”
There was no answer as she rushed down the hall. She found her daughter squatting in the bathroom, wedged between the toilet and the countertop, her chubby little face intent on the job at hand. She held a screwdriver (not from the toy tool set she and her sister cherished, but a real screwdriver) in her hand.
“It was loose so I fixed it, mommy.” Indeed she had. The toilet paper dispenser no longer wobbled against the cabinet, as it had for some time. No boasting, all business, my serious cherub marched back out to the garage to return the screwdriver to my toolbox, then skipped back out to the overgrown lawn in search of remaining dandelions.
