I cooked dinner last night, a pasta dish I hadn’t made in years. We sat at the table, my boys, one of their friends, and me, with place mats and nice dishes. The boys even minded their manners. I washed up the dishes afterward to keep up the result of the afternoon’s communal housework. And this morning, I baked cherry-pecan muffins and a rasher of bacon and then left the kitchen clean.
Although these everyday, ordinary actions are probably the norm in many homes, they seem like minor miracles to me because from the end of August of last year when my younger brother died, and until a few weeks ago, I could barely keep my head above water, and sometimes not even that.