Routines.

February 20, Saint-Ismier.

So many days of illness, the memories of a fresh routine already nostalgia, the routine of school days, the first school days and soon the days filled to the brink and the routine marching in, Wednesdays there is no school but going to hear stories and songs at the library, storming the bookstore, finding one more children's book to savor in its delicacy and enchantment, having lunch at the children's café, our haven, rushing home to enjoy the youth of the afternoon and go walk in the woods, slowly they go first then they're runaway kids and I running behind them, jumping on logs, collecting leaves, breathing in the wonder of the simple wilderness just beyond our house, just within our days, then coming home and the brink of the day, hot bath and a dinner and off to bed, I with them, bedtime stories, one more book, kicking and laughing and not ready for bed, and soon it's the weekend and two days filled with this and the painting and the Legos and the routine of school days freshly found, already lost.
Days going by and I wanted to write about all this, the wonder of days so full there was no time to even think of turning on the television, and I wanted to write but didn't find the words to convey the wonder, days going by and I didn't write at all, the routine of school days just that, a routine, what's there to write, but the wonder, the days, and then illness sets in and there is no more routine but that of doctors' offices and the wishing for what's already lost.
Lessons never to be learned.