as i crossed the old bedroom, i remembered how not long ago, my son would open the screen and pick a rose of sharon bloom for me and present it as a gift. i felt saddened that i had not spent more time remembering the best about him lately. there never seems to be enough time.
as i picked up the small framed picture from the floor, i remembered how a lifetime ago, my daughter was a tiny beginning whose every word was an amazing discovery about her. i felt horrible that a time warp occurred whilst i was pining for something different. there never seems to be contentment.
as i sat on the reclaimed wood benches my husband had made, i remembered how i met him all those years ago, a quiet gentleman who had such fury in his heart. i felt clouded by our fog of bills and obligations and lists and failures and tarnish. there never seems to be enough forgiveness.
as i sit on the chair in the corner of our bedroom, i pray for peace,
for memories, for time, for contentment, and for forgiveness. i find
the last line is forever the hardest to write.