Time, you are not the icy fist some think you to be. Nor are you the grains of slick sand dribbling through the fist’s clenched fingers. You are not the loose board waiting to trip us up, the too-tight turtleneck, the too-short shoelace, or the heavy-eyelid last 20 minutes of a late-night journey.
You never change, though I have.
As a child I counted you in the number of times a streetlight changed, watching for the headlights of the car and the turn signal in the dark that meant my parents were almost home from work. When I was thirteen I counted you in the number of MTV videos that a bored summer afternoon could contain.
I have counted you in steps across a marching band field, in ages of cats, in moments of sunlight this evening compared to last night, last week, last month. In number of emails I could squeeze in before the next meeting. In breaths in, breaths out. In lullabies left on this CD before I could put the tiny sleeping boy down and creep away without him waking up. In days left until the deadline. In how long the drive to afterschool will take.
I count you in spite of taking my watch off three years ago, on the day I decided to no longer be shackled by my wrist to you — and I like us so much better now.
My favorite times are our little leaps of faith together. When I paddle out onto a lake knowing I have to be back at 6, and instead of thinking about it I just turn back when it feels right — and I get there at 5:53. Or when I leave the house late, and while waiting in traffic, take a deep breath and tell myself, “you have plenty of time” — and still get to the meeting right as it is starting.
The moments of my days are not fleeting, or slow. Not abundant, or scarce. They just are. Each and every moment, on its own, just . . . is.
And when I remember that, so much more becomes possible.
