Dying light.

If I leave the office just when. If the lights time just so. If the traffic behaves just. If, if, if.

I am home with a little light left. Greeted at the door by two gleeful voices, one escorts me to the closet. “Mama work. Mama jacket off?”

Yes, love. As hurriedly as I can. “Mama’s shoes? Closet?” Yes, love. “I do it.” Mmm… My turn. “Up, please.” It is not a question. Outside? “Yesh!”

Outside we traipse. He, on my hip, me seeking peace. Where can I find a sip of calm. Where can I snatch a glimpse of soothing. What can I feed my soul before the light dies.

I uncover the kumquat. I de-leaf the strawberries. I unwrap Bill and find his lit leaves warm at his feet.

I eyeball the compost pile. Is there time? I could…

“Uh oh, mama.” Quickly, I look up. The light is dying. The moment has passed. Only the tips of the neighboring trees are still frosted with the day’s last color. I look over my shoulder. Uh oh, indeed.

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3 comments on “Dying light.

  1. albert says:

    You speak so beautifully about the competing joys and responsibilities of familyhood. I’m going to share thus with my daughter/mother/provider. She too looks over her shoulder at peaceful gardens.

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