Tuesday, April 12, 2016

I Have No Time

I have no time to write it down for you.


Because you are strong and willful and never take no for an answer. You wear me out with the same questions over and over. I have no time to write because my time is spent instead anticipating the direction of your debate skills, weighing when to encourage the will to fight and when to encourage the need for empathy.

I have no time to write it down for you.

Because the laundry never ends. Because your rooms and your growing bodies are draped in outrageous, wildly creative outfit changes that are bathed in patterns and color. Color and pattern your mother has long since abandoned when the desire for approval eclipsed the freedom of creativity. You ask me each time you change and drop yet another pile of tiny cotton clothing on the floor if the leggings and headbands and Hello Kitty tank tops are what a rock star would wear. Each time I remind you that a rock star simply wears what a rock star wears. A million Hello Kitty tank tops could never improve the perfect way your tiny hips sway when the music moves you.


I have no time to write it down for you.




Because my hands never stop moving long enough to commit the words to paper. They are busy lifting bodies to my hips. Bodies that have now grown so much that they are almost too big to rest on these hips. Hands that are filled with backpacks and lunch bags and grocery bags and every other kind of bag. Bags can add so much weight to a life. But your bags are still filled with dreams and treasures and promise.

I have no time to write it down for you.

Because even when your eyes have closed and you have drifted off, your bodies still slump against mine heavy in sleep. And when I rise, sliding in my familiar way out from your tangled limbs, my thoughts will immediately turn once more to your never ending questions and the inadequacy of my answers. My thoughts will drift over the mountains of laundry that I can never seem to finish and the bags that need to be emptied and the work that needs to be done. I will send a million tiny promises up to the universe about how tomorrow I will answer the questions better and finish the laundry. I will raise your growing bodies up into my arms and against my hips and let your hot breath linger a little longer against me cheek before hoisting you up and over my shoulder to carry you off to sleep in your own little beds.

I have no time to write it down for you.

Where does the time go?