The calm before the storm.
Right now life is quiet. It is early summer, which means warm days and cool nights. The weather allows us to take advantage of time in the garden, playing at the beach and on the river; cherries, strawberries and melons are abounding. At night, we turn on the AC by putting a fan in the window, and by morning it is still cool enough to snuggle under the covers.
We know, however, that the only certainty is change. This year, more than any other, we can feel the slow rumble of change making its way towards us. Soon, it will be hot. The grass will stop being so brilliantly green, and everything will be yearning for rain. We will toss and turn, trying to find a cool spot in the bed. The lettuces in the garden will be long gone, replaced with tomatoes and perhaps some struggling squash.
Most of all, life as we know it will change. Where once we were two, in just a matter of hours (?), days (?), weeks (?), we will be three. We will be forced not just to think of our own needs, but of those of another. From what they say, our days and nights will blend into an alternate reality of caregiving stupor. All three of us will embark on a journey that we have no preparation for, nor any idea of what we will be faced with.
In the meantime, as the approaching storm sounds louder, we will continue to pretend that this year is no different than any other. The tree is up and decorated with the orbs of tiny spiders that claim our spruce as home 11.5 months of the year. As a blend of cultures, cookies have been made for Christmas, though you won't find ginger, nutmeg, or icing on the ingredients list, rather harina de yuca and aguardiente. And in the real spirit of the holiday, the nursery and gifted moisés peacefully await their new occupant.