James makes soup. It seems to be anemic, however I don’t say so. I submerge spoonfuls of olive oil-soaked parsley. I squeeze in additional lemon juice and watch flaky salt soften into the golden marbled floor of the broth. I can not eat one other Saltine cracker. I’ve dumped the final gulps of blue Gatorade down the drain. Our youngsters use their fingers to fish for chickpeas and carrots and flick away ribbons of pappardelle. Not appreciating the luxurious that may be a broth-soaked noodle in January after a virus, they eat popsicles for dinner.
There’s one thing in the lounge wall utilizing the damaged items of lath as a marble run. At midnight, the plastered over chimney is an arcade with a pinball machine. I’m satisfied the uninvited friends are spilling onto the ground, dancing on the painted canvas overlaying I laid over sticky vinyl tiles. I roll James away from bed to analyze.
The rampart has not been breached. The revelers stay at bay.
//
Final summer time, like most summers, Chimney Swifts hatched within the kitchen chimney at my mother and father’ home. On one July morning, the primary swell of tiny throated calls comes from above the damper after which once more, day-after-day, for weeks. The swells are almost loud sufficient to drown out the sounds of the human youngsters who clamor for grandmother-delivered breakfast, provided in tiny bowls. Oatmeal, blueberries, peaches with the delicate spots lower out. Each bleary eyed morning want, served in miniature helpings—on a desk tucked subsequent to the fireplace, in a nest of twigs clinging to brick.
This yr, we left for our tenting journey whereas the hatchlings have been nonetheless calling for his or her breakfasts. We mounted a nest of our personal—polyester taffeta stretched taut between versatile poles. On misty Adirondack mornings we woke to the calls of Hermit Thrushes and Cedar Waxwings and Crimson-eyed Vireos. Chipmunks scampered on our picnic desk and darted below our toes. We laughed and mentioned, “How cute!” We went on hikes. The youngsters ran forward to seek for mossy hidey-holes and caves for dipping into. Locations to maintain secrets and techniques. At my mother and father’ home, the Chimney Swifts fledged.
//
For the primary time in days everyone seems to be feeling nicely and the house is quiet. Aside from the muted bass notes of Brian Lehrer thrumming by the floorboards. Aside from the sanitation employee laying on his horn. Aside from the boring roar of the BQE, the shrill bark of the yard canine, the tinkling sound of plaster falling from lath. Aside from the decision of the Blue Jay outdoors the window. Aside from the Tufted Titmouse, the Northern Cardinal, the White-Throated Sparrow.
I rewarm days-old soup, noodles plumped to dumplings.
I shall love my neighbor as myself.
