Procrastination

Procrastination

... by Shannon

Dithering dilly-dally ducks drown darkly.

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Time does not tap twice on the same thin glass—

it shatters softly

while you say 'later'.

I learned that in the quiet after Tuesday,

when the world kept moving

and one voice did not.

Auntie Susie—

it was you who stitched connection into ordinary days,

who never let silence grow thick between hearts,

who called, who showed up, who knew—

you didn't wait until later.

And I didn't know

how much I leaned for 53 years on the bridge you were

until I stood on the one side

and see clearly how the other is

now mine (and seeing how it's always been mine) to walk.

There are names in my chest

like lit windows I must not let pass by—

Alanna, small and bright,

and a soon-to-be future October child still dreaming in the dark,

laughter in kitchens I've yet to linger in,

my dad, my mom, and others ...

threads I once held loosely - not in full recognition of -

now simply needing and asking for hands.

Not hesitation.

And,

I am afraid.

Afraid of the noise of my own days,

the pull of my own mind—

how it loops, delays, defers,

how it says 'tomorrow'

when love and presence is right in my face asking for it 'now'.

So you see...

Procrastination isn't always laziness—

sometimes it's grief wearing a clock,

sometimes it's overwhelm dressed as fog,

sometimes it's the quiet belief that there will be more time.

But there isn't always more time.

There is only this breath,

this chance to text, to call, to sit,

this moment to say

'I'm here. I see you. You matter to me.'

Auntie Susie,

I won't let your love become memory alone.

I'll make it motion.

I'll make it presence.

And, I'll stumble, and will sometimes—

get caught in the thorns of my own thinking,

and lose hours to the hum of survival—

but I'll return.

Again and again, I'll return.

To the table. To the voices.

To the living, the breathing, the now.

Because legacy isn't what you leave behind.

It's what you choose daily not to delay.

And I choose

even though I'm afraid, and even though it's imperfect

to no longer wait

until the silence of death teaches me again.

I will act. I will love.

And, give genuine presence.

All while not continuing to wait for, or, within time, because time

doesn't wait.