It is late in the morning, later than your usual beginnings.
The remains of a headache lingers behind your eyes.
You think slowly, the remnants of a mostly sleepless night.
There is nothing wrong.
In this age of quarantine, life has grown smaller, simpler,
and yours is mostly good. You have health.
Someone you love at your side.
Your children remain healthy and active and well
in their faraway homes.
There is still work to do and time left over.
Time to worship and pray.
Time to create.
Time to read.
Time to think and think some more.
Perhaps too much of that.
You dwell on the idea of being enough,
and how that has changed over a vigorous life
and its changes. You wonder at what made you feel
enough, at times for others, finally in these last fifteen years,
simply enough. For you.
It has been a long journey.
At times you feel far older than your wrinkles.
Successes seem fleeting, Failures weigh heavily.
The balance has been hard to find,
like an artist who paints the same landscape again and again,
Monet in Venice,
you can never capture it all, so you paint it
again and again, hoping each story, each poem,
each brushstroke will reveal more
and allow you the peace of knowing
that with all your fluctuations and flirting,
your fine failures and phoenix rising,
you did your best,
and that is enough,