We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store
and the gas station and the green market and
Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,
as she runs along two or three steps behind me
her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.
Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?
To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?
Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,
Honey I'm sorry I keep saying Hurry—
you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.
And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking
back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,
hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.
What parent hasn't been caught up in the rush of... everything? What person hasn't hurried themselves and their loved ones along, out of habit, out of fear of missing out, out of fear of staying still?
I love this poem's bittersweet shift in the last stanza to the daughter imitating the mother. And these incisive, rapid-fire lines: "Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave? / To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?"
My beloved grandmother passed away this summer, and, among other things, her loss has served as a reminder that our time together on this earth is limited.
Life moves quickly these days. My children are 4 and 6 years old. Life is full of appointments, meetings, school pick-ups and drop-offs, meals, emails, playdates and so on and so on and so on. It's easy to get caught up in the current.
Before we know it, another day will have passed, another month, another year. It's so important to pause, breathe, look around. We're alive, here, now, together. What does the air smell like? How does the fabric of your shirt feel? How does the ground feel under your feet? Where is the sun in the sky? What words does your heart speak if you pause to listen?
So life is a current. But life is also taking time out (or time in) to sit on the banks, watching that current in all its tumultuous glory.
Thanks for reading along with me,