My husband and I seem to make all of our big life changes at once. We have a three year old daughter, and we’ve recently decided it’s time to leave our current house in search of greener pastures with four bedrooms and a finished basement. In the chaos of trying to prepare our current house for the real estate market, the simplest of tasks seem to pile up. And despite the longer hours of sunshine, the day is still only 24 hours long. We’re exhausted and nowhere close to finished. Too often it’s hard to see where the day has gone.
If I Find Time
It will surely be hiding under the sofa,
riddled with holes of dust bunny nibbles.
I may have left it in between
the third and fourth undone laundry loads.
I have searched my dresser,
where it did not lay under the sweaters awaiting the dry cleaner.
It may have slipped into old pacifiers,
or into boxes of baby clothes stacked for storage.
Perhaps I left it across town,
forgotten in a shopping cart,
or pressed between the pages of a coupon flyer.
It must be hiding.
I cannot find it.
I must have lost it.
I could not have thrown it out.
I have looked for my time,
And I find that it does not gather with the dishes,
Nor with the anxieties,
Or the projects,
Or the books, dust, or pipes.
But in a set of eyes still too young to have decided their color,
grey or blue or green.
It is there that I find my time.