They say that there are 62 lego pieces for every one person on the planet.
And I’m thinking that with that thrifted rubbermaid tub found at the Sally Ann, this house has several thousand over that ratio.
There are legos across the basement floor and under the boys’ bed and scattered ones abandoned in the bottom of drawers, remnants of pockets and dreams.
There are paint cans in the garage and a heap of laundry settling sandy in the mudroom and towers of books to plan through, for a new year of fresh learning, a new forging into unknown spaces, and there all these calendar squares crowding, like a stacking, like a piling, like everything running hard into each other.
They say that there are real people who get up early and pull on running shoes and do just that, run, run down to the corner and turn and keep going until the sweat beads like a fiery crowning and their lungs heave till they might actually explode and it’s possible to feel like this is really the exercise of your life.
I had told my mother that once:
Your whole life can feel like you are running for your very life, like you are trying to outrun a tsunami of stress.
Trying to stay ahead of everything that’s nipping hard at your heels. Whole decades can be marked by exhaustion…