Beginning again

Morning rituals and the practice of belonging.

There you are
in bed. Warm.
Safe to settle into the heaviness.
The sun on your arms, pulling you into life.

Sitting alone on your couch,
cupping your mug for the heat.
Washing away the sleep from your eyes,
gently patting your face.
Each step, carrying you into the next.

There you are rushing.

Past the pizza shop,
the smell of pepperoni and onions
and soap on wet cement.

A girl in pigtails
stares into a slice
like she’s staring into
the expanse of the universe.

And I try to remember
when something so small
ceased to be enough.

Walking up the steps, I see a familiar face,
and when I say hello
I wonder if belonging
is a practice.

That when I think about time,
how it stretches and collapses,
bends and flattens,
an accumulation of memories
and a future of unknowns.

Each day, we begin again.

[Inspired by Victoria Bulley’s poem There You Are in my writing class with Jessy Easton.]