The raised notches are where you'll find the generosity. Life's. Run your fingers across the surface and when the bumps nick your fingertips--it is all deciphered. On a a sheet of paper, thirty years huge, you can get lost between peaks.
Don't wake up, breakfast, feed the family, kiss, distribute, rear, launder, wipe up and tuck in. The mundane will deafen us.
Instead, open the window and breathe in the leaves floating on the pool's blue through the dusty screen, sit on the counter top to stir sugar and cream into your oatmeal and let them stir theirs, stand so close and look so still into his eyes that they'll stop and ask questions, wherever you go dance to the music or make your own, the softest sweetest voice can change grey to purple, stop for a moment and lie on top of all the piles to watch the sun move the afternoon across a few minutes, then at the end of it whisper secrets with rare words into the folds of their blankets.