Some Moments Can't Be Rushed

The remote opens the garage door so I can drive inside.

I open the door to the house where Lexi waits for me.
Her tail wags like a helicopter blade-- she hovers,
waits for me to put down my purse and keys,
jumps up and down for attention then, just my touch
is assurance enough. She can run outside ahead of me.

Outside the garage she waits for me to catch up.

Once I clear the garage, she takes off, hops through the grass,
looks for the perfect spot to go. This can’t be hurried.
I clip shrubbery and roses while she chases her tail,
her sign that life is so good she can’t contain herself.

I put my sheers down and she knows it’s time to walk

to the mailbox across the gravel road. I fetch the mail and Lexi
fetches a stick so she can play on the way there and back.
She jumps on my leg when I retrieve the mail, wants me
to throw her a piece of junk mail to rip apart. I do. Pick-up
is a small price for the joy she has and I get to watch.

Journey is over, we can both relax. Lexi gets fresh water

and I get a diet coke. She lies on the tile floor to cool off
before she makes her way to me. She snuggles into her
seat on the couch and sighs as she looks over at me, her
head down, ready for her nap. I pick up the computer, a book,
or knitting and I think I sigh, too.  We take the same journey
together each day when I get home.  It’s a time that can’t be rushed.