The Mother of All Jobs

SF Library door1SF Library door2

I drive home from swim practice while Cherry tells me about the mysterious school cafeteria egg roll that tasted like cabbage and cardboard, her friends’ antics in the locker room, her own angst about yet another biology assignment.

I write at my desk while Coco practices the violin. She’s learning a Vivaldi Concerto.  At first, the tones are cautious and pitchy, the same five notes, again and again. All at once, she plays a gossamer run of sixteenth notes as silky as a cobweb.

Children grow up in a blink, a flicker, a sigh. The idea of quality over quantity in regard to time is a myth. Give me the extravagance of many ordinary days.

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