We string popcorn onto thread with small needles, eat some, drop some, tie our strings into long garlands to drape over houseplants. In the morning there are two birds in the living room, eating bits of popcorn off the rug. When I find them there, they chirp loudly, swoop through the porch doors to the potato tree, chattering about their good fortune.
M and J play so wildly in the bath that the water runs under the bathroom door, down the hall. I step in the puddle, scold them for their merriment,then remind myself that some day I will long for water in the hallway, this overflow of living.
An African Paradise Flycatcher flies low over the grass in front of me, its preposterous orange tail so long it pulls the bird down, tips her off balance. She beats her wings with determination, pulls that tail up to the lowest branch of the avocado tree, turns to bob her head at me and my small faith.
J agrees to watch P bike at the playground. She pours her mulled cider into a travel mug, walks behind P along the driveway, a small mother with tangled hair and big round holes in the knees of her tights. P rides her muddy pink bike, flowered duct tape around the handlebars.