"Down these same winding country lanes, our son is three, four, five, six, seven years old, older every day, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen. We lose him a little more every night. We gain him back. "
Every night, we and those we love, disappear into something infinite, and then return in the morning, mostly recognizable, but undeniably changed to one degree or amother.
Read this over breakfast: beautiful essay. Meditative, a bit like the drive, wistful, woven through with memory. What is it about being in our fifties that make us so conscious of time passing? I feel the same these days.
"Down these same winding country lanes, our son is three, four, five, six, seven years old, older every day, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen. We lose him a little more every night. We gain him back. "
Every night, we and those we love, disappear into something infinite, and then return in the morning, mostly recognizable, but undeniably changed to one degree or amother.
🙏🙏
I couldn’t stop reading, or listening, rather, as if you were telling this story over coffee or another drink. And loved the photo too.
Oh thank you! It was one of those out the windows photos. ☺️
Read this over breakfast: beautiful essay. Meditative, a bit like the drive, wistful, woven through with memory. What is it about being in our fifties that make us so conscious of time passing? I feel the same these days.
Right?!
I felt your words melt away any cares. Thank you, Steve.
Grateful for this note, Nancy! Thank you!
What Jed sed..…..
That was a lovely, gentle mediation, Steve….
I appreciate it, David! Thanks!