When I am impatient, my feet start to tap. And when this happens, that man I’m going to marry leans over and says, “chop chop.”
And so I am.
Impatient to stand around. Impatient to stand in line. Impatient to stand and wait for others.
But for all my jitterbugging, I’m rarely ahead.
So this week, I’ve let the littlest set the pace. Following Baby L around the yard, into the orchard, after the dog. She touched the leaves, and tried to eat the wormy windfalls, grinning that this day was this day, and for how the grass felt on her feet.
I went on a bike ride this afternoon. Letting Almost 6 be the leader over a gravel road. She noticed the dandelion fluff and purple flowers in the distance. We talked about the bean field in passing, an injured bird flopping in the ditch, the chipmunk, our favourite blades of timothy grass.
And because of them, and August’s wine thick summer air, these days are long and lovely.