Now or Never Again

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I heard a poem once—not from a book, but from somewhere inside. It sounded like laughter, like light through the trees. It felt like joy.

Like home.

It whispered:

“Look! It’s here—but not for long. One day, it’ll be gone again.”

Mom was there, grinning like sunshine.

Dad—soft-eyed, just once—stood beside her.

And me?

I was small, but I was whole. We were all together. We were there.

But not anymore.

And oh, how I’ve wished to rewind, to press pause, To crawl back into that moment and stay there.

But I can’t. Not now. Not ever, really.

So I have to look hard at what’s in front of me. Feel it. Live it. Hold it tighter than my old wishes.

Because if I keep missing what’s here while mourning what’s gone—I’ll miss both. So this is my promise to the present: I’m not blinking anymore. I’m here.

Because this? This is now. And if I don’t catch it, it’ll be never again.

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