Puffy clouds drift slowly in the blue sky. The morning air is still cool as I cradle one sleeping niece and watch another play with her friends. The three of them giggle and whisper as they spy on me to see if I know their game. I warn the toddlers against breaking the small, low branches of the bush that shelters them. I keep my voice low; the baby in my arms is a light sleeper.
The toddlers' world is tiny. A morning lasts forever. Their daily nap might as well be a life sentence.
Their world is also infinite. When time is measured not by the clock but by the slow rise of the sun, when work and play intertwine so seamlessly they might as well be the same, there is room for peace. There is time for joy.
The bush stirs and giggles again, this time with a little shriek. Someone has made a mud soup she wants her friends to share. I grin and let it slide. I am no stranger to nature's delicacies.
The children play in a bush that is named after one that once burned but was not consumed by the flames. I guess that I shouldn't worry about them hurting its branches; they can withstand the February cold as well as the August heat. The sleeping niece stirs, stretches, whimpers a little. I kiss her forehead and rock her back to sleep. She, too, will have to learn how to withstand New England's varying climate, but until she can learn how to put on her own boots and mittens (or sunscreen and water floaties), her family will shelter her from the elements.
My sister walks over to check on her girls. She whispers to me and kisses her baby's forehead. A little voice calls from behind her. She crouches down to say hello her two-year-old and her friends playing in the shelter of the burning bush.
