The tiny tasks we do throughout the day.

 

The minutiae that eat up our time, but bear no importance to our conscience.

 

Pulling back the polka-dot cardboard piece to open the window atop the tissue box.

 

Placing items in the corner of the bottom step to fill shelves upstairs later.

 

Milk in fridge.

Bags in plastic column to be pulled out as needed.

 

A picture frame smashing to the floor, its glass front smashing into tiny pieces.

 

One clear shard a tiny scimitar slicing the terracotta tile.

 

There is life to be lived, but the slivers must be vacuumed.

 

And then the hose sniffs the crumbs just around the corner,

the detritus tracked in from outside –

grass clippings and unidentifiable pieces of bark

or dried stalks from dead flowers.

 

Stop.

 

There is always a mess to be cleaned up.

 

But time is limited.

 

We must be sure not suck our precious moments into the vacuum canister, lost forever.