A Fleeting Thought

A Fleeting Thought

Nine generations will never come to fruition.
The eighth? Was me.

Was: such a heart breaking word.
Questions about what were they like.
Who lived where?
Thoughts like:
I’m lucky.
Blessed.
Torn.

The clock ticks internally.
It usually goes away the next day, but it still ticks.
It usually doesn't. Hasn't.
This is the second time I've ever really heard it.
Sometimes it's strong.
Most of the time it's a fleeting thought.
But a deep one.

It's a sadness no one can see.
No one knows.
But I know.
Things that will die with me:
A set of The Chronicles of Narnia I’ll never read at bedtimes.
A clarinet I’ll never teach in the afternoons, 30 minutes at time of practice for 10 years.
A cookbook from the past hundred years on both sides of my family.
Stories of world travels to all the states and over 20 countries.
All of these, all of these will die with me.
Not any of my stuff.
The stuff will end up in a garage sale or a local Goodwill.
A young child, not mine, will purchase the books for a steal, then later that night open “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe” —book one.
Begin.
And only question the name, my name, in the front as long as the reading of the page allows.
0.8 seconds.

It’s not that I mean nothing.
I don’t.
It’s not that I haven’t loved or loved enough.
I have.
It’s not that I couldn’t.
I could.

It’s the something else that I really desire that I don't have.
And it's not totally the aforementioned, fleeting thought, the one that has only shown its face a few times in my life, though sometimes it is.
Mostly? It's the thought and the face that never leaves and is in every good dream I have:
It’s the right timing that I didn't have.
But maybe one day will again.