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Harvest came late and early,
all at the same time. Fruits were ripe for pickin' while the first crop lay rotting in the fields, groves, orchards, and urban greenhouses. There was no way to keep up with this burden of blessing. We had to step on the squishiness of it all, just to gather new bounty. Ruined shoes and laces, hot and sweaty faces, an eagerness to unload, to catch our breath, led us in prayer for more time. We wanted a rewind, a step back in time, just so we could be ready, so the mess wouldn't slow us down. But there it was, glaring in the sun like a ton of wasted wishes. All we could do was keep pickin'.
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Time’s hands were
hooded bandits. Robbers. Thieves. Ticking a time warp that stole precious would-be memories from a plate of what could-have-been. At least there is a Now. Somehow, its hands haven’t taken the Present, the Today, the At This Moment. Those have been left for the gray hairs, the achy muscles, and the scars. Today is all that we have. It is all that we are till the sun gives way to grace us. Someday, we will not be cheated. Someday, we will not be robbed. Someday, we will show the world exactly what we are made of, and our ingredients are glorious. Until then, we remain current and constant for the ones we love. Like a time line that will never fade retrograde, or dissipate. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |
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