Thinking

I've been thinking,
lately,
of so many things.
Too many really,
for my brain to deal with on a daily basis.
I think that maybe I should seek out
full-time employment.
Not that I don't work full-time already,
as you know we mostly SAHMs do.
But away from this house,
in an office or cubicle (if I'm lucky).
A job with many hours,
which would take me away from the kids.
Something I really don't want to do yet.
But then I think that I don't want Tim
to have to work
until he is 80.
And at this rate,
with four kids and four college tuitions,
he's on track to keep bringing home a paycheck
until he's at least 85.
I've also been thinking that writing
isn't much of a career
when you don't get pieces published.
How do people do this all day?
Pretending that what they have to say matters
to at least one person?
I know that my words do matter to a few,
and it's not that you few aren't significant to me
(because you ARE, more than I probably tell you),
but YOU aren't the one making the decisions,
the one pulling the strings,
the people who say YES, WE WANT YOU.
Your being able to smile at my words
makes me very happy. Estatic even.
But does that fact make me happier than anything else?
I'd like to think so.
I can't be sure.
Which gets me to thinking that no one can be sure of anything.
Even the postal service isn't always as dependable
as they used to be.
My mailman forgets our house sometimes,
even if I'm waiting for something important,
like the pathology report on my abnormal mole.
And then, when I do get the report, it makes me think, too.
Of how I should stay out of the sun
more than I already do.
So I can earn back that nickname
the one from long ago, in high school:
Cadaver cheeks.
I whisper the words to myself
and feel my lips sickle into a smile
as my mind reels backward in time.
I'll wear that nickname loud and proud, now, if it
keeps me from suffering a fate like melanoma.
Now that's a word I'm not going to think about.
At least right now.