Late for Work

There isn’t time for smiling eyes and toddling legs; fat fingers grasping loose Cheerios.

There isn’t time for “Uh-oh” cups of milk -thrown, giggling, to the just-mopped floor.

There isn’t time for biting kisses, hair-ripping hugs, or I-got-your-nose-Mommy.

There isn’t time for all the ‘helping,’ all the sighing; all the crying.

There isn’t time for childhood.

So go to work. There isn’t time.

Photo by Tatiana Syrikova on Pexels.com

Β©2021 Chel Owens

29 thoughts on “Late for Work

      1. Yeah, me too. My dad just died of it a year ago. I had to stop in a neighborhood a few years ago and help a woman keep her dad from running off. There was nothing but terror in his eyes. He didn’t know his daughter. Fortunately, his wife arrived after ten minutes and I was on my way…

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