Our friendship circle tightens around hospital beds and stuck dissertations like thread on a spool. We feel the whoosh of summer, the go round, and try to help each other in perpetual catch up. Once I heard that as we age, time begins to move faster and faster. I’ve read quantum theories. I feel it whooshing.
The sun didn’t rise today like a hot air balloon. It was a frisbee, and now the cars, they streak the air, and soon it’s a rag on the dirty supper table and that short hot hour after the kids go down. A trail of sand to the bed.
When time was slow, my legs were beautiful, and I read Bible like a knowing carnivore. I undergirded my mind in context: one minute equals one minute. Time is how we make sense, understand space, dimensions. If it seems to shift, so does the compass. I’ve been known to doubt true North.
I take Bible now like a new salt lick, chew one word at a time like cud, try to stop the clock, make the minutes slow molten like glass. Think of love so tenderly dense, fluid, made of lightyears. Think of God who can’t be cut in half, not even in thirds. Think of us, strings raveled in the whole, how we are infinitely divisible, whispering through like fragmented comets, shadows behind the shadow in a mirror at night.