“He tried to measure his dayby tallying the hours on his wrist.I wiped it off and called him a prisoner.He placed the hours on a scalewith hours from former days to compare.I took a hammer and broke it all.He bent down and picked up theshards of minutes firstthen 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 raceor win a heart.They are times when you give birthor lay something, someone to rest.When you wake up in the morningwith a smile because anything is possible.When someone compliments the thingyou 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 andare 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 speckswith the tip of my finger.“Do you remember this?” I asked.“Of course,” he said, “I was whistling in the kitchenthat morning.”“Why?” I asked.“Because of the knowledgethat I was loved.'”
Kamand Kojouri