Of laundry. Of dishes. Of diapers.
In those diapers…piles of poo.
Piles of dust. Of crumbs. Of toys.
Sometimes even piles of puke, when the dog is involved. Puddles when it’s the baby.
There are the piles of bills, of mail, of receipts and lists and junk.
Then come the piles of worries and fears, musts and don’t forget’s.
My life has been reduced to piles, real and metaphorical. My only wish is that, while emptying the dishwasher or sweeping out the kitchen, I stumble upon piles not mentioned here. Like, say, cash. Or sanity. I’d even settle for silly old handwritten letters. They’d be anonymous, maybe, but say all the encouraging things I need to sort through all my other piles with love and optimism. Or maybe just…
Keep it up. You’re doing fine.