Evening fading into itself, rolling into itself like a sleeping bag, the light sighing out at the edges like air from batting and down filling. Leaves showing their silvery undersides in the breezes like fish. Pizza dough rising, sweetish whole wheat, in a metal bowl under a blue and white striped blanket. Diapers rolling around in the washing machine, in preparation, and receiving blankets, readying themselves to receive.
Club soda with lime fizzing in a glass. Five quart jars of pickled beets lined up in the cabinet, having gone from garden dirt to jewel-like preservation in a matter of hours. Tires whirring by. My belly, hardening like a ball, in practice. Soon everything will be different--again. As it always and not always is.
To do, still: slice tomatoes fresh off the vine, and scatter them on dough with salt and garlic and oregano. Shred basil into ribbons. Grate mozzarella cheese, and let it fall with a liberal hand. Sniff my fingers, redolent of spices, against that other deepening layer of flour and yeast and water browning together in the high heat. Whisper to the wee one: we're ready when you are. But we're also happy to wait, for a month, even, if that's what you need. We can keep ourselves busy. The best time of year is just showing up these days.