A Day That Counts

This is a day that counts. All of them should, but so many get away. Last night my wife told me she felt a lump in her armpit. I held her, not knowing what to think or say. All the years, the different places, the growing up, the children, it added up to a considerable weight, and yet, not enough. I want every day to count. Yesterday it rained, washing most of the leaves out of the trees. She went for a walk and I stayed inside, playing with the girls while my son read a book, curled up in his favorite chair in the living room. Outside, the strangest light showed up the reds and oranges of the remaining maples, the faded browns and bright green of the grass along the dirt road outside the window. The sky was black, just the light of the setting sun as if magnified through a prism in the clouds. Then last night we made love with yes, desperate hunger, scared of what the future might bring. We fell asleep and woke up and today, a day that counted, I told her I wasn't going to church. I wanted to spend more time with her and the kids and God, if you're listening or reading this blog, you know what my prayers are.