To live is to be all in between.
To be in between midnights that count the days like beads on an abacus
moved in one direction.
Days between birth and death, an unknown number of dawns marked by the clocks we depend on to tell us when to do what.
Between what we want and what we have. Between parents and children, meals and sleep, weddings and funerals, in crowds and alone, married or not, war and peace, loving and hating, teaching and learning, chaos and moments of serenity.
Moments of reflection between the plow, the axe and hammer, spindle and wheel, the broom, wash tub, thrasher, roll-thread machine, washing machine, copier, computer and cell phone. We live in niches of shop floor, school room, office cubicle and kitchen sink,
As my days spool down I believe that to die
is to be out of time and space
all or nothing without any in-betweens.