Oh shit. A posted picture is worth at least thirty likes, but guts into a few paragraphs are worth nine. But that’s okay. There’s never enough time.
Never enough to go fishing with your Dad. To listen to your Mom. To learn about your wife when she was a kid through conversations with the in-laws. You’ll never get to hug your kids enough, but even more important than that, you’ll never have enough of those moments when you see them and they don’t see you. Through the door crack. The kitchen window. In the rearview mirror.
There isn’t enough time to enjoy enough good meals, drinks, or secrets. Hell, I’m barely finding enough time to finish our flooring, keep my thoughts straight, or shower in the morning. But all of this is good. It’s fine. If I had enough time where would I get meaning? What would be the point of birthdays, holidays, a few extra minutes in the morning when I am warm in bed with my wife, feeling that original hunger. Wanting what I used to have.
Hunger’s where it’s at these days. I have an appetite so big that it cannot be filled by anything—steak and potatoes, wine and cheese, chipped beef dip and crackers—so instead, I fill it with everything. And so, I put as much in as I can so that I don’t think about the past or worry about the future, and instead I tune into the now.
If it needs fixing, I’ll do it. If it will make them happy, I’ll try it. If there’s a chance my actions will send a ripple of good into the world, I’ll fight for it—even if I never find the time.