My mother used to shake her head at me,
wondering (among other things)
if I ever enjoyed the moments I lived in.
Too busy thinking ahead, anticipating,
the now got left behind, lost in the stack of futures.
Too self-contained, too busy moving forward,
too busy protecting myself (and generally not well),
I was never there. Not completely.
If she could see me now,
the broken parts re-arranged into something franken-like,
a perfect replica of what was, not a hair untouched
and yet completely different. Perhaps too much in the now,
too afraid of plans and futures, too afraid
of missing my own life,
soaking up each moment, each taste, each touch
as if it were my last, able at last to love
the life I am in,
it is neither better or worse.
It simply is, God’s fingerpainting,
remade with each wiggle of fate,
a new person,
a new year.