Thursday, which means it’s almost Friday.

Decaf in the French press is the new favorite.

I look down and see a small coil of brown. A snake. A snake. A snake. He gets a dust pan and broom and sweeps it out onto the deck and beneath the railing to the hill below. I ask him if it’s the same one he saw last night. He says he doesn’t think so.

I show the big kid the picture of the snake and ask him if it’s the same one he saw last night. No. He doesn’t think so.

Forgot.

Out of breath, but that’s not a surprise.

Never not taking pictures of grape clusters.

No snacks, no lunch, no purse.

This one-on-one time is sometimes better—definitely needed.

Exhausted joy.