I blinked, and eight months flowed by.
I blinked, and eleven years flowed by. It took eleven years for the dates to match up, for the day my father died to be that day again. Some years I am distracted by the whirlwind that passes for April, but this year, I lived the week again. I would close my eyes, and I was there. I would open my eyes, and be both here and there. I would open my eyes, and be both then and now. I’m sure there is an equation to explain that, but I don’t know it.
I blinked, and next week my daughter will be six. This week, my son will be three.
I recently reconnected with an old friend. We were twelve when we knew each other; it has been twenty-four years since then. How can this be? When we were children, our parents seemed old. Or at least grown up. But we are not old. I will not speak for my friend, but I do not feel grown up. But now I am the parent. Perhaps I am old. Perhaps old is not what I thought it was. Perhaps these seemingly mathematical impossibilites are just more equations I don’t know.
While my eyes were closed winter flowed by. There are tiny leaves on my apple trees, and the beginnings of life on my maples. But nothing yet on my ash tree, from which I take my cues. It is in no hurry.