here

now: neighborhood children giggle and yell and run under the peeking through grey sunshine as i sit cross-legged in the middle of my bed wrapping wire around beads and stringing them together to soon be sent across the sea to become a talisman of words another wants to hold close to her heart.

yesterday: a cafe full of chattering, eating, meeting people, i weave between the tables trying to find a place to call my own where i can sip this mug of chai and write and remind myself that i do know what step to take next even though the uncertainty sometimes slips around me like a cloak i don't remember buying in a dusty flea market another lifetime ago.

the day before: when she refuses to get in the car, we walk along the sidewalk passing storefronts and cars with "you have to hold my hand" said aloud on repeat, and then we turn and do it again because she has no need to understand the stacked up inside my head to do list that includes "picking up the taxes" on the line right after the doctor's appointment we just completed.