Kamand Kojouri

“He tried to measure his day

by tallying the hours on his wrist.

I wiped it off and called him a prisoner.

He placed the hours on a scale

with hours from former days to compare.

I took a hammer and broke it all.

He bent down and picked up the

shards of minutes first

then swept the seconds.

I told him he’d missed a spot;

there were some sparkling specks left.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Those are moments,” I said.

“What are they made of?” he asked.

They are times, I thought, when you win a race

or win a heart.

They are times when you give birth

or lay something, someone to rest.

When you wake up in the morning

with a smile because anything is possible.

When someone compliments the thing

you hate most about yourself.

Times when you are embarrassed.

Times when you are hurtful.

Times when you relish in a hearty meal.

Times when you service others and

are content with a well-spent day.

“What are they made of?” he asked again.

“They are made up of times when we are fully present.”

I licked my finger and picked up one of the specks

with the tip of my finger.

“Do you remember this?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said, “I was whistling in the kitchen

that morning.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because of the knowledge

that I was loved.'”

 

Kamand Kojouri