A Day You’ll Remember

On this day, I walked in the cold, dreary rain with Kate to school. It was a dark morning, and it was more of a sloshing than a walking. We joined two neighbors–including the one who still walks even though his children have long graduated from the walk-to-school campaign. On the way, I noticed the glistening drops on the berries on that long hill up through the woods. We were so soaked and chilled through that we were thrilled when my husband drove up in our old burgundy minivan to pick us up in the drop off lane in front of the elementary school.

On this day, I sat in my neighbor’s house and admired her Christmas decorations while I waited for a radio host in Minnesota to call me. Because I needed a corded ground line phone (and we don’t have one), I conduct all my interviews down the road at this house. This dear neighbor leaves me little love notes and puts out her nice coffees and teas on the days she knows I’m coming for an interview. She’s at work, but we text all about my interview. Meanwhile, another neighbor called to ask about the interview and offered to pray for me.

During the interview, I thought about the enormous cat at my feet who I cannot make eye contact with or she will meow and purr so loudly that radio hosts have commented on this mysterious cat that wants her 15 minutes of fame. If I ignore the cat, she disappears. It’s hard to ignore a cat that doesn’t want to be ignored.

On this day, I made gluten-free lasagna for a neighbor who needs a meal tonight. While I assembled the lasagna, Kate called out random facts about her cat research like how many muscles they have by each ear and how meowing is not innate but more of an adaptation to get a human’s attention.

On this day, I tucked blankets around Sarah who feel asleep with a fever raging. I kept the Christmas music playing softly. In a moment, I’ll set the makeshift kitchen table that’s really a tiny table with a board on top to expand it fit anyone who stops by. I’ll put out my blue everyday plates but use the crystal water goblets.

I’ll grade papers with candles lit as the house settles to bed.

It’s a rainy Wednesday. I want to remember this house, these neighbors, these children, and this rain. What a precious day this has been, but how likely forgotten and blurred into fragments of a thousand other days that pass far too quickly? I write because I want to remember.

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