This morning we went out for breakfast at Lux. The remaining family members were Grandma, Peyton, Aunt Jodi, Uncle John, Aunt Carolyn, Mom, Bob, and myself. The Spartan Omelette was good, but I am a bit sad that I didn’t get a poached egg. That was delicious. We said fond farewells and each headed off in our separate directions.
Grandma and I returned to the apartment where we proceeded to put sheets and blankets on the bed I’ll sleep in for the next few nights. My Grandma is known for saying that we shouldn’t clean up when we leave. “It’s my therapy,” she says. It’s her therapy to wash the last cup we drank out of, to change our old bed sheets, maybe even to discover that sock we forgot behind the bed. It’s our therapy to run the washing machine and fold the bedding. There is something comforting about the ritual of mundane tasks. Something heartwarming about smoothing out the last wrinkle in a bedspread. No matter how much everything changes or who drifts in and out of our lives, there are the little moments that we repeat that become like the stitches that sew the bits of our lives together.
Beautiful writing!
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