You can really launch yourself into an egg, Granma. You really can.

Luckily, 4am was a false start. Tucked back in, Baby remembered sleep for a few hours more. Figures of mist drift in the field, later, after toast and egg. Dog gallops through them. I watch Baby in her Wellington boots fall over the tractor tracks. Mud print hands held up: ‘Oh no!’ Her sing-song steps and words, over the embossed earth, under the faint sky. Back to the road, to pretty stomps in puddles. Back to the coffee pot: Granma is flagging. Boots discarded, just a little way before reaching dry land, she takes on tasks: wearing sideways flip-flops, dipping a cup into Dog’s delicious looking water; oh, it has hair floating in it, fascinating, heh, heh, if I turn my back on Granma she’ll never know I am dipping my cup in here for a swig; and what are these books doing, cluttering up the shelves? Wry smiling Granma hugs the hot espresso. 

Dog, if they ask, you ain't seen me.


Suze said…
This is deliciously mundane.
Stephanie V said…
You have a way of making even watching the baby poetic. She definitely looks like a girl who could give a Gran a good run.

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