freewrite 3

There are dishes to wash and I just don't want to wash them. I keep returning to them over and over, washing one dish and then wandering away to do something else. So I guess I do want to wash them. No, that's not right. I want them clean, but I don't want to put in the effort. I think this is probably the root of every single problem in my life.

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Mad's wearing butterfly tights and Lightning McQueen rainboots. She's also wearing fairy wings. Violet's in purple plaid tights and cherry rainboots. Violet's running through the muddy puddle in the driveway, while Mad pokes mud nearby with stick, digging it deep, looking for worms. I'm on my back in the driveway, staring up at the sky - just turning blue again after three straight days of rain - and breathe in the air, the wind: it feels like fall again. A squirrel high in the tree above me keeps sending down acorn after acorn to hoard for the winter. He chatters at us.

Even though I'm sure it will be hot tomorrow, even though I'm sure that summer's not gone yet, I can tell from this moment, this wind, that fall is coming, and it's enough. "It's a perfect day," I tell my girls, sitting up to help Mad find worms. I dig and dig, uncovering fat, squirming worms and tiny thin ones, and drop them one by one into Mad's waiting, eager hands. Violet picks up clumps of dirt and drops them into Mad's worm container.

I think this is probably the root of every good thing in my life.