Jeannie in a bottle baby

J, is like lavender.
the three creases next to her mouth on both sides, water stain across her turquoise tank top and long sweater to cover up the supposed hole in the butt of her workout pants

she hops around helping Wolf play, or dressing him as hulk, or distracting him while I fishtail a piece of his hair
all for education purposes of course
there are Christmas cards dangling from rope and chili peppers hanging above her sink and linen hand towels halfhazardly shucked over counters & there is a verse sketched on chalkboard
and a tiny butter dish with an orange chicken on top & she is bashful when she talks about how kickbutt she is at running marathons and sewing and knitting and cooking and giving presents and being a mom and a wife and a sister and a friend

up and down the stairs placing Ruby in her bed, taking her out, putting her back
makes a comment about how sorry she is for the "choir you'll be hearing" when her baby starts to wale. I barely notice though, but Jean? she is aware. she apologizes.

her husband, beard untrimmed, long hair pulled back into a mun (aka. "man bun") heaps servings of pancake mix onto the stove.. two bowls, one specific for mom of the house, "gluten-free" and the other just normal

blueberry
chocolate chip
pancakes?
yes, please.

three servings of coffee? I will never deny another!

and the table is full of chatter and laughter and stories and wisdom and coffee and tiny tangerines and banana orange juice and always before you leave Jean hands you a mason jar full of her famous granola, or a soft muffin, or just happens to have a tiny bag full of gluten free peanut butter cookies or something to make you feel healthy and guilty at the same time

now do you get it? she is like lavender. 
we talk about being different things to the world, light & shade and water and
well,
 she is lavender.