I look for metaphors everywhere I go.

Sunlight streaming, the sound of my

Mother's laughter and the

Smell of cinnamon in the air.

I wait for epiphanies

At crossroads of fate —

When friends share stories

Together, like we have all the time;

When I receive applause;

Or the moment someone will finally

Call me

"Mine."

But life's gifts are in the mundane.

I sit with needle and thread,

Fixing up my old stuffed rabbit's seams.

Gazing at her glassy brown eyes,

And it just happens.

Not as a flash of light

Or the stopping of time.

Instead it happens in one clock-tick

As I brush her fur and make shushing noises,

As if cooing at a helpless bird.

The needle and thread then

Sit heavily in my hands.

I hold heavily the weight

Of a life well-lived,

Of a love well-worn.

How long ago was it,

That I had someone else hold

Needle and thread

For me?

But now I hold them in my hands,

And I swim in this sweet responsibility.

The old stuffed rabbit no longer

Calls me

By my name.

Instead, if you listen close enough,

You might hear her call me

A word that sounds suspiciously

Like a prayer.