Yesterday I stopped by with the kids and a plate of going-stale-but-still-okay maple pecan scones. The giant windows were open, filling the house with the gentle purring of breeze-ruffled trees. The mid-afternoon sun dappled the fresh white walls and the crazy-tall mountains of boxes. I found my mother in the back bedroom unpacking clothes into the white antique chifforobe.
“We live here,” she chortled. “We actually live here now!”
This same time, years previous: contradictions and cream, holding the baby, my new baby, and pear butterscotch pie.