Out of Time

If I could add an hour here or there and jam a just a little more time into this overflowing day, there are quite a few things I would like to accomplish. For instance, I would read. There are many, many books I want to read, stacked on my nightstand, crammed in my bookcase, stashed in boxes and bags in my closet. I wish I could absorb them in an instant and with a blink of my eye, carry them in my brain. I don't have the time to consume them slowly, one word at a time, savoring each plot twist and turn of the phrase, the way a book is meant to be.

With a little more time I'd write my autobiography. Or I'd arrange the family photos into chronological order and paste them into scrapbook albums. I'd get around to filling out the baby books, now that the children are halfway through college.

I would call the friends who I mean to keep in touch with but never do, the ones waiting futilely to hear from me until I suppose they probably give up and move on with their lives.

There are family members who I once was close to who have turned into strangers, babies who have started kindergarten and made it through most of grade school before I've had a chance to meet them.

Life just keeps churning on while I'm mired in the mundane challenges of daily life and the important things, the meaningful things, fall by the way side. I'm just doing the dishes, paying the electric bill and trying to drag myself through another morning rush hour.