An August Evening

I did not get my kids to bed on time last night.

I did not study Socrates or American history or birth culture or feminism.

I did not watch any documentaries.

I did not luxuriate in the bathtub.

I didn’t write anything for my empty blog.

I didn’t figure out how I felt about much of anything.

I transacted in servings of potatoes,

And I established a bathing order for my kids.

I used my sewing machine

To sew one seam.

And it was a promise that I kept.

My daughter has a new skirt.

Simple. Easy. But it came in the tone of teaching and kindness.

It’s a tone that is scarce in the world.

It’s scarce in the hectic mornings of “hurry up-hurry up-hurry up-really?-put your shoes on-I’m going to be late again!”

I have a daughter, and I did not shove her off to bed so I could figure out what it means to be a woman

From the people I collect on paper.

I let my little boy ogle the moving parts of my sewing machine.

I put my existential crisis on hold,

To spend time with the people I made,

Who smile like I do.

It’s delicious when they smile like I do.

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