In the morning, my clock radio clicks on at 6 a.m. A half hour later, I’m walking out the door, headed to work.

Along the way, I pass dozens of cars, all heading someplace other than home. Almost 12 hours later, we’re all back in our vehicles, dueling on the roadway for a better position in the fast lane.

On the weekend, it’s tackle the mountain of laundry, change the sheets on the bed, clean the bathrooms and then fight our way through the grocery store, a list in one hand, coupons in the other.

In between, we’re juggling bills, sorting mismatched socks and hoping the squealing washing machine makes it through one more payday.

Driving through the rain on my way home, my mood soured as trucks sprayed water all over my windshield. But then the rain slacked up and a pale rainbow appeared over the horizon.

I almost missed that heavenly sight, too absorbed in thinking about what to cook for dinner and the list of chores waiting for me.

Suddenly I realized I was wasting a great deal of time whining about what I had to do and the lack of time to do anything I wanted to do. So the next morning, when the “I-have-to-do-this” thoughts hit me, I turned off the car radio and rolled the windows down.

The sweet smell of spring was too fragrant to ignore and the sound of the wind outside was a much prettier melody than anything I’d hear from the speakers in my car.

While putting new sheets on the bed a few days later, I made myself stop calling what I was doing a chore.

Instead, I thought about my grandmother’s back yard and how we’d run in between the sheets as they dried on the clothes line. We’d wrap the sheets around our shoulders, and the smell of sheets crisp and dry from a laundry line is forever etched in my memory.

With that thought in my head, I sat down in the rocker we have in the corner, a chair we’ve had for years, but one I seldom sit in any more. I leaned back and looked out the window, remembering I used to sit in that chair and rock the boys when they were babies.

As they were going to sleep, I’d hold them up close to my cheek, their breathing so quick, their scent so sweet. Many evenings, I’d rock them long past when they were asleep, savoring those moments.

But then they were toddlers, too busy for mom’s lap and a mom too busy picking up after them. Then they were wild boys who morphed into teens and then they were gone. The chair stayed in the corner year after year, slowly becoming a collection point for blankets and tossed-off clothes.

But today, I sat down and rocked.

And thought leisurely thoughts.

And, bit by bit, relaxed.

Responsibilities were far away and memories came flooding back of unhurried moments in my life – afternoons on the beach watching the boys running in and out of the surf, Sundays in the back yard listening to my dad spin tall tales while he barbecued chicken and relaxing in the kitchen alongside my mom, her peeling an apple in one, long unbroken strand while we seemed to talk about nothing in particular but said everything important.

Those unhurried moments, the ones we rush through, are the ones that last much longer than a clean bathroom or a pile of matched socks.

I just have to remember to roll down the windows and let the wind blow where she will.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.