I have time to myself.
Like most normal, happy people
I took a week off work to do Christmas things.
It poured today.
Last night the winds surged through jacaranda trees and crannies.
Today it rained like it does in early spring.
The humidity clumping hair together,
The oyster sky dull as hell.
Today I drove in the rain.
To complete my Christmas shopping,
With a list, and a plan.
I had lots of time to think:
While driving I tried to recall the last time I'd driven in the rain.
While battling with the ridiculously oversized and pregnant yellow Ikea bag I tried to recall the last time I had to carry the weight myself.
While wandering through the mall I thought about the last time I had time to miss someone-
Never, because between getting up for work, work, coming home from work, and going to bed,
I struggled to find minutes to myself.
The lilliputian moments I ferreted out of the day,
I guarded fiercely-
From obligatory phonecalls, dinner table conversations, sharing.
Today I remembered to miss people.
In this unaided, solitary, unoccupied day
I recovered the hours I'd given away before.
It's not that great,
Having time.
Time is only good when it's scarce.