Tuesday, April 4, 2017

1, 2, 3...

Son, you're 4 years old.
We walk home from the park
in the rain
taking tiny steps.
Your little, wet, cold hand grasps mine.
"How are you doing?" I ask.
"I'm ok," you say, sniffing in boogers.
I wipe your nose.
We get soaked but eventually make it home.
This time has moved so fast.
In another 4 years, you won't want to hold my hand anymore.
I try to hold onto these fleeting moments.
They flow through me.

Driving into work
I'll be gone from 7am to 9pm
I see a thick layer of smog as I approach the city.
Poison that will fill my lungs.
I think about all of the chemicals that enter my body on a daily basis just to get by.
Caffeine, alcohol, other medications, deodorant
Even the air I breathe is killing me.
Driving into work,
I have too much time for my mind to turn on itself.
Sometimes when I'm stuck in traffic,
I feel like I'm being buried alive.
"You can do it," I tell myself.
What we do is very important
and I'm lucky to have been chosen to help bring these stories into the world.

Sometimes we'll go to the beach.
After playing,
We'll just stand together where the waves break at our feet.
I feel the ancient subatomic particles
from the sun
warming my face and chest.
I feel the ancient subatomic particles
from the ocean
cooling my feet.
We stand there
feeling comforted by the earth's heartbeat.
I wish this could last forever.