I am compelled to notice all the little things. All the textures and colors and minutest nuances of the wonder of life. The cadence of prose, the melody of cicadas, and the smell of bread. When details aren’t quite right, I also feel responsible for putting all the bits back the way they should be lest I be distracted until it kills me.
As I consider it all, it all stares back. There’s that one circle of folded magenta fabric that fell off my fancy t-shirt. The one remaining Elsa shoe. The button from the duvet and the feather from the boa that all had purpose until their severed connection. And now they are in object limbo until further notice.
I do have bursts of fix it-ness. The most minute of these detail distractions, after 6 months of living in limbo, I’ll then address in two minutes. Because that’s how my mind works. It’s segmented and prioritized and overwhelmed. I’ll waggle my finger and say I’ll get to you eventually. And I do. Eventually.
But until then, I’ll pass by that broken purse, that book page, that un-hemmed pair of pants dozens of times and wonder when I’ll have permission to attend to all the little things. Perpetually, those big things seem so much more pressing. And in that moment, the hour when all the details finally get their due attention, when glue is squeezed and irons get hot and needles get threaded, I’ll remember that life is always in the details. Whether I forget or remember them, I am only their temporary keeper.
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