Pieces of my heart, here and there. Picking up what I can, too tired to go after the ones that have rolled under something or other to hide. Reminding self that happiness is within, and that life is but sand that moves from one place to the next, one shape into another, from wind and water that sometimes mold it gently, and at other times, with ruthless force. Telling self, over and over, “You are but a tiny speck in a limitless Universe, all of which belongs to you.” Making chicken soup because that’s what my grandmother would do. Picking up toys and shreds of paper because my daughter doesn’t limit herself to order, and my son finds joy in cutting things into pieces, watching wholes become lesser, unrecognizable versions of themselves. Pieces of my heart, here and there.