Sometimes the silence is the defining I've decided to leave undone. The days don't mind. They don't know the sound of their own names, so they never notice when I don't call.
I'm too busy with the moments to be bothered with the days. My days are a blur, but each moment is tight and concise. They hold themselves steady and unflinching as we meet.
The days are all the same. I write for a living from the desk in my dining room from the moment I wake up until the moment I hit the pillow, seven days a week. The punctuation marks are a walk with one of my daughters to the convenience store, the occasional splurge on a latte from one of the real coffee joints, doctors appointments, craft projects, poetry read aloud to the kid who suddenly shares my love of the infamous dead. The days don't mind me and I don't mind them.
The clear cut moments are crystalline beacons of truth that set life to rights, as if it were ever anything but right. These are the moments that give my life a definition and rhythm which feels more like a dance than a blur.
A long phone call with my fiancee in which we cover everything from the abandoned house we dream of buying and renovating together to what we're planning to eat for dinner reminds me that I am alive and that I love well and I am loved well. We never cover anything with as much care as we cover one another. Her voice breaks through the oppressive humidity and heat of a desert sky that is begging to rain, but never quite does.
A writing project I love falls in my lap and I feel that I've been paid to play. In the zone with my word play and research, and I am reminded that work does not have to be drudgery, but even when it is paying the bills is as important as artistic autonomy when you have people you love depending on you.
An evening spent with a best friend post-surgery making sure she gets a shower and her meds, prepping food for her in the morning so she won't have to struggle. The moment is just love. It is just a reminder that these are the only things that truly matter. Our reasons for being.
My kids are pulling antics that have a 50/50 chance of ending in injury, asking me to read another page of Run with the Hunted, although I'm not sure they can hear me over their laughter. I am reminded that I was born to give birth to these three. I miss the two who are on the other side of the country with the woman I loved, who was born to birth them.
Moment by moment, the days have taken place without my fumbling or fussing at them to be anything at all. The blurred outlines took shape in the spaces in between, and they are enough. They are everything.