a moon, worn as if it had been a shell

When we opened the front door this morning, our pumpkins were lying smashed and stomped all over the lawn. Pieces were shoved into the mail slot and seeds lay mushed and strewn on the pathway. It might have been nearly funny if Sophie hadn't had a huge seizure at the breakfast table and we all weren't a bit queasy. I tried to laugh it off with the boys, claiming mischief, as we bent to clean up the mess, but my heart is heavy and anxious. I am resigned to doing the calls -- the doctor, the homeopath, the Lord have mercies -- Sophie is asleep in her bed, not so much resting as plunging into sleep by drug. Abide and ease -- these are the words that echo in my head, weak in their trails.