A Little Time

Lea wrote a wonderful post about my husband, Dave, this morning (okay, yesterday now). Everything she said is true.  We’re so lucky to have him in our lives. He wrote the sweetest piece for Owen’s memorial.  I often remember little snippets of his eulogy when I’m driving to work, or walking down a grocery aisle noticing particular foods he used to cook for Owen, or watching him play games on the computer.  I see and hear him from that day as a courageous, loving dad to Nat and Owen, and his daughters; a devoted husband to me; and a kind and gentle friend to everyone.  Like Lea said, his stories can become quite long, so she gave him the nickname “detail man” a few years back.  

I had always thought it was just us, just this part of Dave’s family, that wouldn’t let him finish a story, until a gathering at his uncle’s house in 2006.  We call that event, the Not-a-Thanksgiving-Dinner.  We were most definitely thankful, but Barbara (his mom) didn’t like to get together for holidays, too much fuss, I guess.  I think all of us knew this would be her last holiday season, and it was.

Tonight, as I was planted on the patio in 26 degree weather (not harsh by the standards of our northern partners, but cold for our locale), I was reminded of how little time we have to make an impression on those left after.  I don’t know why this theme arose, but it did, and I was compelled to come inside, to the household temperature of something comfortable, oh, about 72 degrees.  Entering the kitchen was like walking into a blanket with satin bindings – soft, warm, and easy.

I grabbed my computer from the side of our bed, cleared the coffee table of today’s activities, and wrote a short poem.  My poems are not masterpieces, they are random.  They are quick.  They are thoughts splayed out in raw form – mostly for me, but on rare occasions like tonight, they are for you, they are for our families, they are for those gone before.  This one is for my mom, for Barbara, for Owen – and for Dave because he inspires many of my posts, because he’s here, always here, allowing me to recognize my time with him – it could be so little time, and I’m thankful for every moment.  As much as these important people in my life didn’t/don’t  think of themselves as having anything in common, they did/do.  They didn’t know it way back then.  I’m sure, they know it now.


A Little Time  

We only have a little time

To make an impression

To leave an imprint

To make someone who loves us laugh


We only have a little time

To dance our particularly odd dance

The one they will remember

The one they will try to imitate

And fall short, for the inevitable grief that overcomes their memories


We are born, nurtured, loved, confronted, won, and victorious

And we spend our little time confirming what we know to be true

That we are not here forever

Nothing is, nothing can be, nothing wants to be

We want to be here in this instant

In this little time, our little time


When they recall our quirky movements, our different speeches

Those captured in photos they will love forever

Those that made us unique

They will be reminded that we knew

We always knew

That we only had a little time

To be us

To be the person they wanted us to be

And to be the person we simply



Random.  Thoughts.  Imprints.  We simply…are.

Song for the night:  Takes a Little Time, Amy Grant




~ by Linda on January 4, 2009.

6 Responses to “A Little Time”

  1. “To make someone who loves us laugh”

    That’s my favorite line.

    I had a feeling you had a supportive husband. I’m glad to know for sure. Candice’s mom’s boyfriend doesn’t even let her talk about Candace at all. That just breaks my heart into a million pieces.

    You both seem like extremely patient people. That is something I admire greatly, patience.

  2. Loved the poem,
    needed the song,
    Love YOU

  3. And so now we know it’s true — behind every great man, there is a woman downloading a poem from the cool winter air.

  4. So, true and so beautifully put…So little time to say, “Thanks” Linda…

  5. Yes, so little time. Why do we sometimes wish time to quicken, then? Must slow down. Thanks!

  6. Beautiful poem!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: