Saturday, May 2, 2009
In the stale, stifled air of our car, which had been idle for seven weeks, Spouse and I sat and gathered our thoughts.
I was sobered to note that the digital clock had been flickering relentlessly from one second to the next all the while, though we were not watching, through each intense, sharp-edged moment as though nothing untoward had happened to us.
I snapped down the front-passenger visor: for the record, chocolate fingerprints remain in place even when one's life might have fallen apart. Years ago Spouse joined a volunteer organisation and became a Big Brother to a little boy who happened to tug one day at that same visor as he chewed on a sugary snack.
The pair spoke on the telephone recently about Spouse's recent trauma: the younger one asked questions; old times were resurrected. Too many months and years had passed since the last occasion.
"You were eight when I met you," Spouse laughed.
"And I'll be eighteen in a month," was the reply that startled the sparrows right out of their trees, that left Spouse momentarily mute.
Children march from one year to another even if we are not watching. Especially if we are not watching.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 7:24 AM