A Syringe, Two Corks, and Assorted Chopsticks

Wielding a blow torch; soldering metal. Creating.

In this moment, this one, is family life. Warm hands apply a pink sticky note to my bicep. Silence occurred in this house, miraculously, only seconds ago.

Now the dog barks, at the behest of a five-year-old. The screen door opens and the bare feet of the bigger boy scuttles across tiles. He is on a mission. The little one, pink cheeked with heat, and tired after a day out in the world, presents a book to me. I'm so mad at you, he says, leaning against me. Because I made him go get the book.

So I must go now.

A syringe leftover from a dose of antibiotics makes a wonderful bath toy. Two corks too. Assorted chopsticks -- well, we might use them to eat noodles, or to build something. Anyway, I never throw anything out.

It never hurts to try something new. Otherwise, there's just the rut and what I know of me. And I'm sure there's so much more.