Maybe Next Time

by Cesca Major

We worked and we hustled and we moved through our days at a frantic pace—for what? To pass each other like worker bees.

I’d been missing so many of these small, precious moments, not just in this loop but before too, leaping ahead on the To Do List in my head rather than pausing to look around, to feel, to taste, to smell: to live.

Maybe when any of us dies we will always say it isn’t time, that we need another day, another hour, another minute. How lucky we two were then, to get this time. What a gift.