Looking over your shoulder,
things could have been different,
maybe even much better.
What tale would you rewrite
if you had a story eraser?
Family, friends, career?
Maybe even chances missed
by the non-choice of hesitation?
Even when I plan the Nth degree,
my foresight turns out to be
about as good as my eyesight:
much in need of at least a good pair
of dollar store reading glasses.
Who could have predicted this rain
that dampens life’s parade?
And so I relive the tragedy of
my comic existence over and over,
second-guessing every decision,
wistfully imagining edited versions,
ever rainbowing my monochromatic life.
In this state of desired mulligans,
emptiness hangs heavy in the air,
making every breath a struggle.
Through quiet moments, attending respiration,
I slowly begin to realize what’s missing.
Not the fairy tale, or opportunities lost,
but the very soul of life itself.
Wishing for perfection’s happiness blinds me
to a life of joy always present
in the gift of gratitude for this journey:
hope in each path and person,
grace in every thought, word, deed.