The oven light glows golden in the muted morning light, made soft by the blanket of thick clouds heavy with the promise of rain. Though it is mid May, the air drifting in through the screen door ushers with it a dampness that tugs my knees up tight to my chest, curled into a knot on my chair, and for a moment I consider putting on water for tea.
Milani is perched on top of the counter, knees splayed wide to her sides like a lanky fawn, her arms rummage through the cupboard. Behind her, on a chair pulled right up to the counter, Berkley stretches tall onto her tiptoes to peer curiously around her sister, watching carefully as Milani pops a broken piece of brittle rotini pasta into her mouth and crunches down on it loudly. Milani leans forward and roots deeper into the dark corners of the cabinet until her hand finds a zip lock baggie hidden behind the peanut butter, a golden treasure of tiny fishies, and holds her catch high like a trophy bass for her sister to see. Quickly, she opens the treat and doles out a little heap of crackers for herself and then for Berkley. "Here Berks." She drops a fish gently into her sister's mouth, open round like a baby robin expecting her morning worm.
* * *
The rain flavors the breeze, although, for now at least, the concrete remains dry. The girls burst through the screen door, in pajamas still, to play in the yard. And though I know the way fresh air can brighten a damp mood, I follow them reluctantly, drifting back for a moment to the days before I had my girls when I would have been content to spend a damp, spring morning lazily curled up, like a cat, under the crocheted afghan the color of evergreens, swept away in a book, hands curled around a steaming mug of tea. I step onto the porch, wrapping my arms around my waist, amazed that the chill doesn't seem to penetrate the girls' young limbs, and I turn back into the house to collect sweatshirts.
I call out first to Berkley, holding her sweatshirt open, ready to tuck her warmly inside. She trots over quickly but squirms, and wriggles, and turns the task of threading pudgy hands through sleeves more tedious than necessary. Her efforts are concentrated on grasping wildly for sissy's purple sweatshirt lying on the step beside me. We struggle for a couple awkward moments, at odds, each faithful to our separate missions, before I set her free, having finally tugged her sweatshirt on. She snatches Milani's sweatshirt up victoriously, and hurries across the sidewalk, purposefully, her arm stretched stiffly out in front of her, waving the sweatshirt like a banner, and delivers it into sissy's arms with a silly toddler curtsey that sends her diaper out behind her and her chin out in front, her eyes locked on big sister and her cheeks puffed out around a bright grin.