Time holds only the shape you give it.
This week, it was pressed thin, squashed against the wall, hot and heavy. It was pressing, but lovely all the same.
I am not sure, exactly what I am supposed to do with the time I am given. I only know what when I am busy, the time feels weightless, wet bubbles blown from a wand. It hangs on the breath of air, willing the atmosphere to deny its own pressure, keep it from popping.
I’m not a young chippie, so as I get older, I get more like my mother. Which is wonderful. As Mom gets older, she falls deeper and deeper into herself. Cares less about what other’s think. Lives more for the time at hand. She says what is there on her tongue… not meanly, but in a direct way.
She is a wonderful woman– good and easy, like so many other I know and wish I could carry around with me in my pocket, all day long.
Time holds the shape you give it.
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