Being Saturday, the morning ease was like soft bread dough – elastic -springy, so the finger-poke rose back, as if to say Don’t Discount What’s Inside.

The boys rose later than usual, and we all sat rising the easy warmth of each other’s presence. I sat in the living room, back-buttressed with stiff pillows, loving the morning light and time with my words after mixing two loaves of homemade bread and tucked them into the proofing oven. The boys plunked themselves into the La-Z-Boys across the kitchen to family room in the far side of the house. The yeastiness of bread in the making blanketed us, breathing Home and Comfort.

Paul slept late, padding downstairs bleary-eyed while I stole a few moments to read and write before the day’s inevitable: cleaning two closets, my office and my daughter’s. Avoidance was no longer an option.

The neighbors may look askance, and the social distancing zealots on FB will scorn me. But we decided to proceed with an already delayed home improvement involving 3 days of contractors displacing us from the upstairs. I’d dreaded this day for two months, so was feeding myself well this morning in advance of the onslaught. I worried less about the social distancing – the doors and windows were open during their visit, we were distant in the house and vowed to wipe down surfaces after they left. Unpacking 27 odd years of treasures tucked into corners, shelves, under beds and inside rarely opened chests would be hard.

Even harder will be the throwing out of anything with a memory, particularly that of touchpoints where maybe I could have made different choices. Bending down to unclog the vacuum, I lefted a cloudy photograph, dulled with time, of a twin stroller with Jeff and Will seated, smiling, both looking at the camera which is a rarity – Jeff cherubic as usual, and Will with that impish, “you better watch me closely” look.

Could I have intervened right after age 2, when it all went south? Is it my fault after all? Was I working too hard, distracted, swallowing down the failed developmental milestones as I listened to the voices that said boys are slower, twins are slowing to socialize and communicate?

I put the photo on my VariDesk, a fitting location as my self-forgiveness rises and falls like a wheel, like some non-sensical phase of the moon. Pushing two boxes of old photos of the me I used to be – the men that used to be – and the family that is now, I let the vacuum suck away the cobwebs and the regret, like so much dust. After all there were times to simply clean up, and not think about what you might be throwing away.