We have back stairs in our house.
I don’t know how it began, but my children all kept their shoes there.
One pair of shoes to a step.
Even when they are away…and come home…they put their shoes in their spot.

I like to see their shoes on the back stairs.
If the shoes are on the stairs, then the person they belong to is home!
There is something so right about that.
Home for a weekend…home for a week…home for the summer…home!

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I saw her pirouetting around the room.
Obviously trying to pass the time while her mom was shopping.
I almost envied her abandon.

She was wearing a twirly skirt, which she obviously loved to wear as she danced.
She had rain boots on her feet…not the ballet slippers I would have imagined.
She was carefree…not yet affected by the whims of the world.

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A young mother came to visit with her three daughters.
What a lovely morning.
I promised that I would get out our dollhouse and all the accessories.
What memories came flooding back as I watched her little girls play.

They played with the dollhouse and all of the pieces for hours.
Their mom and I sat in my kitchen having tea.
She held her precious eight week old daughter in her arms.

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I can still remember sitting for the portrait.
Nothing fancy…just an artist who was sketching in a store in Philadelphia.
Somehow my mother found out about it and decided to take advantage of the opportunity.
It was a day of getting dressed up with lunch to follow.

I remember that my dress was pink.
The artist told my mother she was going to make it blue.
It was so hard to sit still when I was five years old.
Somehow, I sat still long enough for her to get a preliminary sketch.
The portrait would be finished some time later.

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A young mother spent the days at home with her small children.
Some days were simply delightful, playing with them, reading with them, training them.
Some days were difficult and exhausting…when nothing seemed to go right.

Remnants of breakfast were on the floor under the high chair.
Jelly was stuck in the two year old’s hair.
As the sun shone through the glass storm door, she could see every hand print, every nose print, and little forehead marks pressed upon the glass.
She knew each print and who put them there.

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