Of all the tiny stories that make up a day
a week, a month?
Do I tell the one about being unable
to make it to my cousin's funeral,
the one who was like a sister when we were kids
but somehow we grew up and drifted
our separate ways like a dandelion seed
puffed out of someone's wish?
Do I tell the one about how I missed
first day of school pictures?
The one my husband took that wasn't full
of smiles and eager tween bubbles giddy to meet
friends in person once again?
The one with one less in the picture because
that one is enrolled in the University of Life?
Of all the tiny stories, which one do I tell?
Do I tell the one about the caterpillar in its
The one I caught wriggling and undulating,
pumping its whole body,
to shake itself loose
of its old skin for good,
embracing its metamorphosis
instead of fighting it?
Do I tell the one of all the ordinary things
that add up to a melting pot
and trudging along,
embracing changes but dreading them
at the same time?
Of all the tiny stories, which one gets to fly?