The kids sing hymns, mixing up lyrics that border on heresy sent on their third trip upstairs to tidy up their room.  

Him and I cook at the stove, me stirring ghee while he fries steak in a cast iron pan that has something akin to barnacles growing on the outside of it.  Years of heat and grease charcolized.  

The baby, not so much a baby I suppose, stands on the bench at the Island banging a wooden spoon impatiently waiting for food, his round and dimpled body showing no sign of want.  

Summer rains outside, threatening autumn.