“The room in a spin
I hear the howl of the wind
And the pounding of the rain
And I’d give everything to dream again”
– Surviving, by Luca Fogale

seven years old:
red-ink marker
crossing off calendar days
until that most particular one:
a birthday, Christmas, travel day;
then, time was eternity,
it stretched as long as sticky
fruit by the foot,
it waited for hours
tapping its foot impatiently
on the floor,
it ran laughing in circles
on wooden treehouse walkways,
almost never tired and
always wanting more

twenty six years old:
dry erase marker-stained fingers,
hanging business clothes on
the closet door,
flipping over crock pot chicken,
thinking of tomorrow’s woes;
now, time is a car drive
with no blank spaces
between thoughts and podcasts,
lowering the window shades
after one blink between
dawn and dusk,
mentally counting
the friends
you don’t talk to anymore

always:
only wishing
that time would
sit with me, smell the
pavement fresh after the rain,
breathe through the memories
without all their weight,
and let me remember
when there was only future,
only more