Rubber Ducks in a Bird Bath

I woke up this morning with a bit of a headache and bits of thoughts, inane thoughts, and I wondered, inanely, why bits of thoughts come so early, so apropos of nothing, the day being new, the body having rested.  Rubber ducks in a birdbath. As I unpacked yesterday, I wondered when the week spent in Victoria would recede. I changed my young adult's diaper seven times yesterday, put each one into a plastic bag, twisted and tied a knot into the top, threw it into the garbage outside and lit candles in her room to diffuse the smell. My mind was a lake, placid, serene, at worst, matter-of-fact. Hysteria is so often tamped down by those of us doing this extreme parenting, particularly those who have done it for decades. Even a decent practice of meditation brings one only into the present in the present, if you know what I mean. The past, the future, the eternity of it all, leaves traces, bits, at least for me, even on the edge of equanimity. But that week of respite from it all, (even the money, taken care of) filled me up with it all. I glimpsed who I might have been without it all and brought her back, her bits, right here on the edge. Rubber ducks in a birdbath.