All around us,

everyone’s moving towards something;

the hurried lunch is made hurried,

the leftover breakfast softens under sink water for a day;

the laundry is piled, unfolded—

they rush out the door

running to beat the bell.

The dogs with their wide, brown, roaming eyes

lay in beds looking around big, silent houses.

 

Meanwhile,

I am sitting here,

depositing Cheerios into my mouth,

the underfoot dog is waiting for something to drop.

One child at school, one too young, and the other home sick.

We are watching the shadows of the sun move around the room and ignite the dust.

I take my daughter’s temperature,

her watery eyes and reddened cheeks lean into my shoulder.

My youngest and I find the corners of a puzzle whose pieces come together easily

on a day like today.

 

Later, I will help my sick child outside to the hammock

and let the sun do the work of her tired body for a bit.

We will read and rest and squint into the sky.

 

But for now,

I let the Cheerios fall for the dog—

the little circles hitting the kitchen floor softly,

meaning everything.