My perception of time
changed when my children
were born, those first days
of measuring
hours in breastfeeding cycles:
feed time, wake time, sleep time
weekly photographs next to their
dad’s childhood teddy bear
until weeks become months, and then some
time around twenty of those you 
finally give in to count in years
like everyone else.

My children are rulers
or maybe one of those knotted
naval ropes, cast off ships back in the day
their births and milestones 
points in history by which I measure
how long it has been since seeing a friend, my
deceased grandmother, old classmates.

Last night I realized my next high
school reunion milestone, only
a few years away, will be my twentieth.
Twenty years. 

Out of habit, I cast out the rope.  
My oldest will be 8 that year, her younger
sister 6, both at school by then,
my days wide open.

A twenty-year reunion?
School-aged children?
I don’t know which
surprises me more.