A Return of the Dumplings

It’s a wet, still morning and the house is at rest. The boys, morning pests since kittenhood, are sleeping off a cold night out. Erik is down in town, immersed in his early morning prep. Adelaide is snuggled in next to me. Occasionally, she throws an arm or knee to make sure I’m still solid. 

Indeed, it’s easy to dissipate into the space that undulates between sweet breaths and the placid air that has chosen to settle around us. 

After the high-kneed wade of the past couple of years, things seem to be settling down into a realistic version of a lovely, well-earned life. 

Keeping heart to get to this morning has been a ridiculous, necessary labor invented by the gods of the absurd. 

Orpheus, when he asked to bring his dead, snake bitten bride from Hel back to Bronze Age life, was granted his wish so long as he could lead Eurydice to the world without turning around to make sure she was behind him. 

I was handed an extremely agitated Samson the Cat and told to cross a swamp.

Unlike Orpheus, I am not an Argonaut who plays a convincing flute.

But ask I did.

And here I am, in the predawn light, holding onto the jiggly, furry, outer layer of a flailing cat while the muscular, determined beast inside writes with astonishing strength. 

For fortitude, I have returned to making dim sum.