When I'm away from my home in Cincinnati, I'm still aware of the time passing. But my punctuated visits accentuate life's absurd ability to travel through time. I see myself and my family, older than I remembered. I see my grandfather, his skin somehow smoother than it was, my young nephew, learning to turn pages of books and ask questions without words. Each of them is the other. My grandfather once had to be carried, was once comforted by his mother who is no longer with him to comfort anymore. My nephew will one day walk on his own.
How lucky am I to have a mother who can listen to such things, and share in them; who admits the sorrow of living while still being so joyful for it? This life is so precious and yet seldom do we see it. Returning to family, returning to hallways from years ago, walking in places and reawakening feelings that despite the false security of time, have not really left, are not so far behind--reminds me of how small we are in time. The span of life seems vast only because we fill it. But it will go by so quickly. And I love even the sorrow that it causes.
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