After I dropped Mopsy at school today, and I was making my usual multiple trips between the van and the house, unbuckling and lifting and carrying in the house, it started to rain. I looked down at the chalk drawings on the driveway because Sally hates when it rains and washes all her hard work away. (Her real life middle name means "industrious" and I don't think we could have picked a more fitting one if we had known her for 20 years prior to her birth.)
She asked me to look at these pictures late last week when she originally drew them, but I was busy and then I caught a nasty virus and I wasn't outside at all. I'm very lucky that it didn't rain before today and I got to see them at all, because they were the best thing I've read. Ever.
She had drawn a smiling sun and a rainbow over a house, and next to them were these words:
"Sunny here. Welcome here. Love and care here. Our house."
I almost cried, because, deep in my heart, that is the only thing that I want my children to ever remember about this house. That it was sunny. That they were always welcome here. That they were loved and cared for here.
I don't know if I am hitting that mark. I really don't and that scares me. What will they remember about this home, about this mother? This tired, yelling, worn out mother? Love and care? Oh, please God, let them remember that.
I know I've been away for a long time. I tried many times to come and write, but I couldn't. It was more than writer's block. It was a writer's freeze. A writer's winter.
But winter doesn't last forever; it's just a season after all. And even when the trees are leafless and bare, the warm sap is running beneath the bark and flowing out to the branches.
I don't know when I'll be able to write more regularly, or even if I'll be able to write more regularly. Winter is a long season. But I can tell you that the sap is rising.
Because it's sunny here.