It’s that time when you have lived in a home long enough to find crumbs and dust bunnies under the couches. The stuff the first two pushes of the vacuum didn’t find.
It’s that time when my six-year-old often prefers his friends over me. I listen to him playing in the backyard, laughing with neighborhood kids. I pull him back in at near-dark, as he pushes and prods against my apron strings.
It’s that time when the semester is getting stale. When trying to teach new ideas feels like riding a donkey uphill.
When clean clothes have become a nuisance, as they tower toward the ceiling and sturdy clothes baskets beg for mercy.
It’s time for winter. For yin to have her due. She’s waited patiently in orbit long enough.
It’s time to be a writer, a singer, or a modern dancer.
For more downward dogs. More cups of tea.