Time makes a weird temperamental companion. It passes without telling me it was here, and let's me go through the day without really feeling it pass by. Years can pass, and it feels like it should have been only a season.
My appreciation for how American Indians counted years grows on me. They said things like, "I am forty winters." I like the ring of that. I could say, "I am 40 Christmases." But, it wouldn't be 40 Christmases. It would be maybe 20. I don't even know how many. Wow. When was my extraordinary, emotional, joy-filed First Christmas? I almost feel guilty for not knowing.
Time. Remember when you were a kid, and that next big event was months away? Oh! I would groan marking off the days. So many weeks and days to go. For me, dances occupied the circled, highlighted, colorful spaces on my paper calendar. Months of anticipation felt like years do now. Years.
It makes me wonder if I am living much, I mean Living. Do the years pass so carelessly because I don't look forward to very much anymore?
It's been so long since I wrote, I forgot how to add tags to a post. Ha.
