Unresponsive one day. Finicky, the next. The day after that? Grumpy. Many days: Just plain impossible.
My four year old?
No. My flute.
For an inanimate object, a wooden flute can be rather moody. But these Irish instruments, they are most at home in the rain, and so this morning, as we welcome the sweet and much needed rain in a drought summer, my flute welcomed me with open arms. My breath became its song, my hands, its dance partner.
These are the days that keep us playing. Again, we say: Come, sweet rain!