There is never time. There are children, laughing, running, getting their knees scratched, crying. There are bills to pay, news to watch and things to say while we take big bites of beef and fries. Things started and not finished, sentences left incomplete. And their incompleteness hovers above my head and haunts me and wakes me up from my counted hours of sleep and I pick a pen and a piece of paper on the nightstand, and I pick up the IPad at the grocery's line, or a napkin at the ice cream parlor and I fill in the blanks with the words of our dreams with the delicacy of the love that once was and I continue the writing of the bits of our lives. I pick them up where we left them and I choose the words that will keep them infinite.