Time. That elusive, mysterious concept we all understand but never stop to think about. Not until we stand at a point in our lives when we look at a person or an object and think, "This didn't look this way yesterday." And then we wake up and realize that yesterday was perhaps twenty years ago. The first thing that passes through our minds was where did the time go?
One day I decide to take a drive along villages I haven't visited in maybe ten years. New houses have been built in meadows and the enchantment of the area has been paved over by new lanes and sidewalks. The old ladies I had seen dressed in black sitting by a doorway are no longer there. The door is closed and looks like it hasn't been opened since I've last seen it. No one is living in the house and the roof looks precarious. The wild coastline has been paved over by a walkway and now I can no longer stand on the rocks to look out over the waves that have travelled the ocean. Instead, I am hemmed in by a wooden balustrade where teenagers, oblivious of anything other than themselves, have carved their initials.
Those of us who have children are perhaps more aware of time and of how it cheats us of those moments we think will last forever. Taking my daughter to school, picking her up, making sure she does her homework. Those are things that seem to go on forever, until the day I wake up and realize she's in college and those days of primary and secondary school are gone. They live on only in memories and photographs. A neighbor, only a couple of years older than me, is suddenly a grandfather. I remember going to his wedding and visiting to see his newborn daughter; who is now a mother. A new generation is coming, and it seems that only yesterday did my generation grow up and start forming families.
Time is deceptive in a shorter format, too. One morning the sun wakes me up a little bit earlier and I realize the days have grown. It's no longer December, it's the end of January and in a couple of months spring will be here. All those things I was thinking about doing, have I done them? Or perhaps, thinking the month would last a little longer, I kept thinking tomorrow. And I look at the rosebushes I was planning to prune and see that the forms of the new buds are beginning to swell. I should have pruned them two weeks ago.
And as I write this I realize it's almost twelve and that I should have put the pot on the fire to have lunch ready by one o'clock. Time is the thief of time itself.
One day I decide to take a drive along villages I haven't visited in maybe ten years. New houses have been built in meadows and the enchantment of the area has been paved over by new lanes and sidewalks. The old ladies I had seen dressed in black sitting by a doorway are no longer there. The door is closed and looks like it hasn't been opened since I've last seen it. No one is living in the house and the roof looks precarious. The wild coastline has been paved over by a walkway and now I can no longer stand on the rocks to look out over the waves that have travelled the ocean. Instead, I am hemmed in by a wooden balustrade where teenagers, oblivious of anything other than themselves, have carved their initials.
Those of us who have children are perhaps more aware of time and of how it cheats us of those moments we think will last forever. Taking my daughter to school, picking her up, making sure she does her homework. Those are things that seem to go on forever, until the day I wake up and realize she's in college and those days of primary and secondary school are gone. They live on only in memories and photographs. A neighbor, only a couple of years older than me, is suddenly a grandfather. I remember going to his wedding and visiting to see his newborn daughter; who is now a mother. A new generation is coming, and it seems that only yesterday did my generation grow up and start forming families.
Time is deceptive in a shorter format, too. One morning the sun wakes me up a little bit earlier and I realize the days have grown. It's no longer December, it's the end of January and in a couple of months spring will be here. All those things I was thinking about doing, have I done them? Or perhaps, thinking the month would last a little longer, I kept thinking tomorrow. And I look at the rosebushes I was planning to prune and see that the forms of the new buds are beginning to swell. I should have pruned them two weeks ago.
And as I write this I realize it's almost twelve and that I should have put the pot on the fire to have lunch ready by one o'clock. Time is the thief of time itself.
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