Hurry

I wrote a poem on the occasion of hearing the news that our oldest daughter, Donica, is expecting a child this winter.

Hurry.

A child is coming.

Hurry. Have to get better. Have to get ready. Have to get younger.

Only six months until joy.

Hurry. Hurry. Have to get healthy. Have to be prepared. Have to slow aging.

Only  eighteen months until “granpa” and “mamajoy.”

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Have to eat right. Have to feel good. Have to be there.

Only six years until first days and first hits and first friends.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Have to stretch. Have to be limber. Have to be strong.

Only twelve years until school solo’s, league championships and long hikes.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Have to walk. Have to run. Have to sprint.

Only nineteen years until pomp and circumstance.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Have to beam. Have to applaud. Have to cheer.

Only a few decades until white dresses and tuxedos and new family.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. Have to stand. Have to dance. Have to live.

A child is coming.

Hurry.