From one window, morning rushes in. Evening lingers long out the other.
Six panes of light are temporarily etched across our path each afternoon.
My grandmother’s birds float quietly overhead.
I bustle and scurry.
She scatters cupcake plates in my shadow and plans another party.
He appears in the doorway as the sun sinks low.
Eyes ever twinkling, no matter how wearying the day.
Strong arms. For tossing her. For holding me.
We race to fall in.
The days stories unfold in familiar fashion.
We light candles, ladle nourishment, and laugh.
Soap and cinnamon. Scents mingle.
Clanging. Banging. Gurgling. Humming.
And this unlikely cathedral, in quieter hours – a sanctuary.
Thoughts rolled and rumbled.
Tears cried and dried.
Washing. Wiping. Kneading. Stirring.
And I am being made.