Time
…is the child’s years, drawing out days to weeks and weeks into months, as though summer may never end. Then autumn begins the cycle again, drawn out endlessly by our innocence.
…is the desperate moment where time is suspended, the mind holding back the floodgate of pain and loss, keeping the future at bey for an eternal second or two.
…is an elder’s years, where one month tumbles over another like books from the past, falling to earth, unopened in their speedy descent, memories slipping secretly away, stealing the stories as though someone else coveted them.
Where are all of the moments, the days of joy and sadness, the threads that make up our lives? When we are gone, do they linger briefly in nostalgia for a life? Or do they turn to dust with our bodies, settling in deserts and mountain tops, keeping vigilance for us?