They Might Be Neat But They're Still Piles

Piles. I have them everywhere.

In the bathroom, about to do laundry, I have the towels, the underwear and socks, and there are the colors. Piles of winter clothes, piles of outgrown clothes in the boys' room.

In my bedroom there's a pile of books, they make a tight pile in a stack. In the living room a pile of toys. It's a neat bunch in a basket. By my desk too many piles of too many things.

I have piles of children. Piles of friends. Family. Responsibilities. Piles of promises.

I keep them in their category. Sometimes I keep them from me.

On a clear day when the windows are open and I embrace energy with the heart of a lion, everything is easy and the piles are put away where they go. A place for them all and they fit in their place.

Clouds crawl by and my eyes are drowsy and it all spills out, into piles, again.

And it gets easy to make my map around them, to add on top of them, what's another onto the pile? But I find I only have mind to give attention to just one or two. So, the others suffer and grow like an infection.

The moments when they're smoothed from wrinkles, tucked and tidy, are so few. Out of habit, out of pride, out of need I try to satisfy. Every pile, a push and shove and kick-the-door-closed to keep them from spilling out again and again.

But they do.


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