I have become such a traditionalist
That is,
So in love with the rituals that thread day into day
Like coffee in the afternoon
Or the way the morning sunlight peers into my bathroom windows
The way the cat always half-sits
on my legs in the evenings
Or the way my bed-headed baby springs to the edge of her crib after naptime:
Mama, you’re here.
I love when the world feels small.
When neighbors wave while walking dogs,
and oh look, they planted roses;
When friends are so comfortable that they put up their feet,
When a heart is so comfortable it lets down its guard.
They say it takes a long time to grow an old friend,
and perhaps the same to grow an old soul,
but nevertheless;
the older I get,
the more I delight in the little things
(that are really the biggest of things)
that perhaps even my great, great, great
great
grandma loved most.
Like a husband’s worn boots by the mudroom door,
the smell of onions in a cast iron pan,
the giggle of a tickle fight,
the whisper of a 2-year-old’s secret —
and a cup of creamy coffee in the afternoon.
