A weekly light — poetry, stories, and reflections from the strange in-between.

Before the Moment Passes

There are moments when they call for me—
Daddy, come play with me,
Daddy, let’s cuddle,
or they rush in with a story about something tiny and enormous
that happened in their small, shining world—
and guilt hits fast, sharp as a pinprick.

Because I’ve said not right now before.
More times than I want to admit.
And every time the words slip out,
I feel something tilt,
something fragile I might not get back.

I already regret the ones I missed—
the moments I traded for whatever felt urgent,
the seconds I let slip because my mind was somewhere else,
the hours I lost scrolling through a world
that’s never loved me back.

They’re still young enough to reach for me first,
still certain I’ll listen, still certain I care.
But I feel the clock in my ribs,
ticking louder than it should.
I feel how fast childhood changes shape,
and how a single “not now”
might become the one that sticks—
the moment that closes a door
I never meant to shut.

I don’t want to lose these small miracles
to noise, to stress,
to the heaviness of being the grown-up
who’s always behind.

So when they call,
I try to answer.
Not perfectly.
Not always.
But with fear and love tangled together,
pushing me toward them—
before the moment passes,
before it becomes another memory
I can’t fix.

🕯️ Lantern Note:
Some lights burn only for a breath before they shift, change, grow.
And the hardest part of loving anyone—especially the small ones—is knowing how quickly those moments vanish.

This week’s Lantern is a reminder to step up while the world is still calling.

🕯️ For a new light every Thursday, subscribe to the Lantern.