Rain and Resonance

It rained all day, the steady drizzle blurring the view until the house itself seemed to shrink under the low sky.  Inside, cabin fever crept in, making the kitchen feel tight.

My husband and I worked quietly together, turning weekend cherries into wine. The air was thick—crushed fruit, sugar, and the steam hissed from the pot. Our five-year-old son and toddler daughter darted through, their energy outsized for the cramped space. Warnings mingled with their laughter—don’t run near the stove, watch for hot water.

“It’s dangerous,” I said, gripping the kettle handle; my heartbeat quickened.

For a while, the kids took turns crushing fruit.

“Look, Mom!  I figured out how to remove the cherry pits more quickly!” My older child said as he mashed enthusiastically, intent on the task.

Suddenly, our toddler screeched—a wild, pterodactyl sound—snatching the masher and stabbing at the cherries.
“Me too!” she demanded.

“Hey!” my son yelled, trying to pull it back. Their fight was all quick hands and hot tempers, cherry seeds flung aside, sugar water hissing.

“Enough!” My voice cracked through the kitchen as the mess and worry spilled out in a single word. Silence, except for the rain tapping on glass. My son’s face twisted in frustration; his sister clutched the masher, sticky-fingered, defiant.

I knelt, arms open. The toddler crawled in—fight gone soft. Her brother retreated to the corner, assembling wooden toys with deliberate care, humming the Pirates theme he always chose after a storm.

Across the room, my husband and I exchanged tired, knowing smiles.

The toddler perched on a chair, popped cherries, painted crescents on her lips. The kitchen warmed—patience hemming in chaos, the air rich with fruit.

After a while, my son returned, holding out a contraption of wood and rubber bands. “Look, Mom! I made an articulating loader. See? This part turns.”
I pulled him close, inspected the jumble. His pride shone brighter than any accuracy. Rain blurred the world outside. Inside the kitchen, cherries stained little fingers, the air still warm and sweet. My son tinkered at the table, my daughter perched on a chair, chewing with slow satisfaction. We breathed together in that small space, finding each other again in the hush after the storm.

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