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 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.


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.

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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