Lindsey gets ready to go for a run. By herself. She needs the break.
Isaiah cries. Shiloh stirs.
The dog hops on the table, licking up what’s left of Isaiah’s cereal.
“Wendell, get down!” I say it louder than I wanted to.
Shiloh wakes up.
I tear Isaiah from Lindsey with the promise we can wave to her as she jogs off. He doesn’t love the idea, but it gives Linds a chance to sneak out. I set him down by the window.
I start googling “special farms to send your dog.” I have a love-hate relationship with that thing. Mostly hate. He’s the belly fat I can’t work off–the bottom of the totem pole I’d bury if I could–the dead branch on the family tree I wish I could snap off.
When Lindsey goes for runs, I imagine her with the swift elegance of a gazelle. Shiloh goes back down, Isaiah gets distracted by his toys, and Wendell lays quietly on the sofa (I do love that dog).
I curl up beneath the covers of my computer screen, grabbing words like I’m counting sheep, and I slip into a dream of a more tranquil life. It’s then I realize that silence is found in moments alone, but peace can only be attained through moments together (no matter how chaotic they may be). Because if war can only exist between two divided oppositions then peace can only exist in love.
And, though a family tree may not be neat, we should be grateful for its shade.