finding and seeking and being

finding and seeking and being
I’m always looking for something.

I don’t quite know what it is.

Something.

Something I want to do.

Someone I long to be. She flees away from me, as if she thinks I’m not ready yet. Or, knowing me, she’s just teasing me.

I keep on looking, and in the meantime I just am.

He looks for me. A worn out knit blanket and a teddy bear that is losing his fur travel with him.
He knows very well what he wants.

Me.

He couldn’t care less that I should be peeling carrots and crying over onions.

I sit down with him on my lap and he’s quite willing to share me with my book.
He found me.

I hold him tight and his hair smells like summer and sunshine.

I inhale the smell like I’m an addict, because that’s what I am.
This is me. I am just a mama kissing a sandy head of hair.

The head dives away under my chin.
I slowly turn my head towards my book.

We sit, we are.
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Being might just be the most important thing you can do.

And so we sit, being important, with sand between our toes and in our hair.

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