All that matters

So many ideas
for how to be a better mother
etch themselves every day in pencil
on the skin of my heart,
on the uneven walls of my mind,
eventually on that quick ship of a tongue
right before they become words
like waves
carrying my voice

but this one
wielded a brush instead
and the blackest ink,

a big idea
that seemed to want
to write over
the rest of them.

“All that matters,”
the idea scrawled
in thick letters
across the open book
of my rib cage,
“is how you spend
your time.”

I thanked the idea
and then asked my son
if he wanted help
making up dragon names
which we did
while we walked on logs
back and forth across the beach
until the sun
let go
of the last seam
between sea
and sky.