A few weeks back, I was talking to my friend L, on her birthday. We've known each other for many years, since we were college students, living in the dorm, so we've been witness to many profound and formative moments in each others' lives. For her, it was a birthday with significant meaning, and she said that one phrase kept running through her mind: "There's so little time." And this made me think--and say, "But it wasn't always that way. There were times that seemed endless, as if they would last forever." And this made me remember the way summer days or nights felt when I was a girl, that time meant nothing at all. And it also made me remember the endlessness of time in a different way--summer days in my 20s, when I was directionless and lonely, and I wasn't sure how to make it through a entire and endless, empty day.
I'm certainly not the first to write or think about the relativity and elasticity and sometimes-brevity of time. But that day, in that phone call with L, I felt it completely and intimately, and way down. As usual, context is everything, and in the context of our friendship, feelings run deep. We told each other stories--laughing and crying. Some of them felt like fairy tales.
I wonder how it would be if time were a mother instead of a father. What might she carry instead of a scythe?