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Little socked feet sliding

I remember when it used to be not if
But when
When I eventually would have my own little people
Running in little socked feet
Sliding on kitchen porcelain
Skidding in mud and dirt and grime
Sticky fingered smiles and hugs  

And then, one day, perhaps on a day just like this
A day when my clock strikes from one year to the next
When became if

If I find the right person
(And by right I mean a person whom I love
A person whom I love and believe could love me back
A person whom I love and who loves me back and who
We could love our own little people)

And so, on this day, a day when my clock has struck
And flipped me from younger to older in a minor instant
When is now if

Because I have a person whom I love
(I think)
And who loves me
(I think)
But, something inside me hesitates
Stutters at the thought of us
Chasing down little socked feet
Picking up tossed aside clothing
Bathing away the mud and dirt and grime
Hovering over warm sleeping bodies in the night
Worrying over socks to darn
Or heights to measure
Of words to teach
Of lessons to be learned

Is she the right person?
(Am I?)
Now if.

And if
Now maybe never.


About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.


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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

November 2014
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