THREE AND SIX AND FIVE

332/ February 13, 2012 - “Trust time this time.”

There are things about me you are now starting to understand. As a child, I was fascinated by calendars— there were numbers for each day, and each of those days belonged to a week, a word. The last day of the month was always a celebration, the tearing off or the turning to a new page the sign of something gone, something good, and that there was more of it coming. I had a collection, time maps I liked to call them, for the walls and the wallet. I carried with me the comfort of knowing that the familiar can always be new, that each week had a Monday, and each year had our birthdays and all the holidays, and we were all just shuffling along: men and months, moments and memories.

You and I don’t believe in how time passes. Our story has no start, and maybe that is reason enough for it not to end. We are the rising action always rising, the middle part of a story a monument to itself, refusing to move. And yet we move so swiftly. I look at the date on my phone and smile at the memory of a year ago, how we weren’t friends yet, or maybe we already were.

Maybe we already were.

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