We have had weeks of unrelenting heat; thick, humid days that hit record temperatures and left every living thing limp and wilted. On the hottest day, a brush fire burned just north of my neighborhood. It was too hot to close the windows against the smoke, and I kept thinking how appropriate it all was. It made so much sense for the steaming, heavy evening air to smell like fire. I bathed the girls in cool water that night and put them to bed with wet hair and damp cloths laid across their chests. Everyone I know had been complaining about the weather for days, but I loved it. Even on that hot, burning night I loved it. It felt like being inside of something.

It seems like that is the great journey of my life, this search for someplace warm and safe. Not even my memories will do. I seem to only remember the sad things. Everything has always been so terribly frightening. I remember reading A Wrinkle In Time when I was very young, and being much too scared to sleep. I also knew that I couldn’t get up and find my parents because they would be angry that I had gotten out of bed. I remember laying stiffly in my bed for hours, too frightened to stay there and too frightened to leave, my heart pounding in the darkness until I finally fell asleep. Sometimes life feels like that: an endless stretch of lonely, black night. I used to conjure up images of things that would comfort me, beings who loved me very much and would make me feel safe, like the fairy in The Velveteen Rabbit who finally made the sawdust bunny Real. I still do that sometimes. I imagine my grandmother (who died shortly after Babs was born) watching me from wherever she is now, sending me waves of softness and love. It amazes me sometimes how separate we all are from each other, each of us wanting so much to be loved and each of us trying so hard to do it all on our own.

The clouds are back now, and the air outside is cool and clean. We spent the day at home yesterday with a fire in the fireplace and applesauce muffins baking in the oven; lovely long hours of dozing on the couch with fat cats and little girls. Pamela was with us, and Zibbit crawled into her lap and buried her face in my friend’s neck. “Pamby,” Zibbit said, “you smell just like Mommy.” I wanted to cry just then. I wanted to hold my daughter’s face in my hands and explain to her how very, very lucky she is to have so many people that she loves, who love her so completely in return. But she’ll understand when she’s older.