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
