You can't make your heart feel something it won't.

Hi there. It's been awhile. I don't know. Here's a song.

Just the same.

We went in search of different things. Madeleine was looking for creatures to catch in her net, minnows or frogs or bugs or lizards. Violet, with her silent intentions, hunched over near the edge of the pond, looking for rocks or evidence of fairies. Me, in search of that deep breath that comes when I've been outside with the girls long enough, near a thing of great beauty. That breath that empties out my lungs, lets the light in.

The moon hung large on the horizon, completely full, deep yellow, looming. We stayed for a long time, and I took pictures as I waited for that breath to come. Night fell, and the moon rose high enough to reflect on the pond, shimmering through the gentle ripples of water. I tried to take a picture, but the batteries in my camera died just then. So I watched the moon's reflection and found it, that deep sighing breath, the relief of letting go.

When we left I told the girls that that had been my favorite part of the outing. That it has been so long since I saw the moon reflecting on a body of water, and it was just such a lovely sight. "Did you take a picture?" Mad asked, and I told her no. But really, in a sense, I did. I caught the feeling just the same.

Until I am part of it.

The children are sleeping. I hear their silence, a soft void of sound, the whispered noise of small limbs nestled in covers, the delicate din of eyelashes brushing cheeks, tiny breaths, the quiet ring of dreams in the gray-dark. The whole house is dark, black-cloaked windows -- night is pressing in from outside. The light in the kitchen fends it off, and the glow of the television. I am tired. I dice a red onion, slicing the neat rows, and dice the red and yellow bell peppers, and shred the baked chicken from Sunday's dinner. It all comes together in a pot of soup, simmering together in diced tomatoes, green chiles, the warmth of cumin and chili powder and garlic rising in the steam.

Once that task is done, and the kitchen is tidied, I drift into the other part of the house, closer to the glow of the television, and mute the sound. A storm is swelling outside, the rain an audible insistence of sleep against the roof, against the back door that bangs against the house in the wind. There is a slow murmur of thunder. How sad, I think. Me still in my work clothes, shoes and all, as I lay on the couch and curl underneath with a pink fuzzy blanket. There is comfort here, somehow, in the sloppy, unintentional end to this long, long day. The sleep is sudden and easy; I fold myself into the silence until I am part of it.