It gets dark early and the days seem over before dinner.  And the days seem so full of things, the season feels so full of stuff.

But there is always room.
There is always time to read, to write.  There is time for tea and talking, time to swim laps, time to see a show.  Time to stop whatever felt important and build Legos, bake cookies, admire artwork, play fire station.
There is always time.
This is mostly a note to myself.  A reminder, as I stand and eat dinner, lukewarm, with a tiny human tugging at my pant leg.  With a million to-dos tugging at my attention.
There is always room for ice cream, even after a big meal, even if it feels like it's just squeezing into the cracks.  
There is always room.

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