The Passage of Time

I feel the crispness in the air as I step outside, the slight hint of change upon the air. My steps grind the leaves under my shoes into the dewy grass. My jacket hangs about loosely, unbuttoned.

Usually, I savored the changing of the seasons. Somewhere years ago, I read a quote from someone I can no longer remember about how each season feels right in turn. And so they do. The cold death of winter gives way to new life in spring. The summer sun brilliant and life giving, turns harsh and deadly as July fades into August. The coolness of fall comes as salvation once again.

Usually, I savored the changing of the season but not this year. I long to hold on to the summer a little longer. I want time to pass slowly. Let the sun set a little later each evening. Let the day go on a moment more.

It is not fear which bids me cling to the present, but joy. The beauty of each day I long to contain, to bottle up and lock away, to savor when darkness falls again. Everything feels as it should be.

My husband is happy, content and successful in his work. My son is still small enough to wrap up in my arms, though I know he will not wish me too much longer. My time is running out.

The next great catastrophe is looming on the horizon. I do not yet know what it could be but I do know we shall triumph, survive, or lick our wounds and began again. I do not fear the trial and tribulation which we have yet to endure. I just long to hold on to this day, each happy day, a little while longer.

I open the doors of the shed. I push aside the lawnmower and kick a water gun out of the way. Somewhere behind the sleds and the snow shovels, I find the rake. It still has a leaf or two from last year lodged within its prongs.

I emerge back into the yard, wiping a cobweb from my hair. I gaze about the yard and sigh.

There is no hanging on. There is only going forward. The clock cannot be stopped. I can only seek to savor the best of every day.