On this day

May 8th, 2008

 

Days – an entire week of days – slip through my fingers like faerie dust. Where do the days go? I wake up, I get the boys ready for the day, I turn around and it is bedtime and we are wrestling two children through baths and toothpaste and the last story and bed. Exhausted, I go to bed not long after the small ones even though much of my work remains undone. I have done the work of raising my sons, of arching an eyebrow to remind A to say merci and bitte; of explaining to him why that tree didn’t have leaves all winter and of going into too much detail with the sap retreating into the root system and of trying again with pictures when he says “I didn’t understand;” of watching him so confidently board the bus and find a seat; of making lunch with him. This work I have done.

The work that wheels around in my head, the words, the half-formed poem, the hundred thoughts that I never seem able to think through to completion, this work remains undone and I drive home from my in-law’s farm glancing at the clock on the dashboard wondering how it got to be past dinner time already and another day gone. Then I pass through the Grauholz, clear the trees, and get that view. That view. It could be worse, failing to get words on paper in this place, with these boys, on this day. It could be worse.

 


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