Slipping. Slipping. 

There’s a precipice here somewhere. I get near it. Then I rally, plant some flowers, get ice cream and step back. But then the ground gets shaky and the earth erodes and suddenly, there’s that edge again. 

One breath at a time. One moment at a time.

The three year old informs me that “our feets  have thumbs too, mom.” I hang onto those observations because I am convinced that’s what matters. I ignore the heaviness in my gut, exhaling it out. 

Rainy days always do this to me. Time to pick fresh flowers. Carefully.