Welcome to the 5770th year of creation. My not-yet-seventeen is tired. Imagine how God must feel.
What's it like, I wonder, to understand always, to have been before the before, to be after the after? I don't spend much time in the present, you know, though I don't have far to wander. Still, I linger in the past and scramble for the future. I pitter-patter across ancient streets in next year's trends, with last year's promises. But I still have my mortality. I still have that glimmer. I know it all will end.
Does it scare you that what I look forward to most is what I'll leave behind? Should it scare me?
I have an unhealthy grasp of the ephemeral. I don't expect things to last. I hope for moments and make provisions so they can't occur. I write and draft and draft and redraft and stop before I finish. I leave my thoughts undone so I can come back to them tomorrow, but tomorrow becomes today. When I don't sleep, I miss the distinction.
You see, I passed a woman the other day. She had an old cap and a shopping cart of recyclables. She had a beautiful morning and a beautiful smile, and for a moment, she had someone to enjoy it with. For a moment, I had something to share. Her face light up that morning, you know. It shouldn't have. She should have known many hellos. She should have shared many smiles. Her laugh should not have been broken, throaty without practice. That morning shouldn't have been special.
People have been telling me how memorable I am. I take the time to care and I'm told that makes me different. I wish it weren't so.
