Little grains in the hourglass.
There he is, one day, a boy struggling to understand; maybe there are tears, maybe there are not.
There he is another – god, what the hell happened? He looks so old.
And me, shit, I’ve just been to work. Or maybe to the bar. God, I hope it wasn’t the bar. Why go there, and let another day slip away?
Does any parent like the passage of time? When you realize the finite quality of their childhood?
All the things you wanted to: be a coach, teach them X, show them Y. Half the chance is gone.
And time? Where are you going to find the time?
There’s work and bills and chores and you … and, and … you have to have time for yourself, right?
These timeless dilemmas, has it always been like this?
I suspect it has.
But it never makes it any easier.
And why does the realization, the clarity, always come at night?
Right before bed.
Right before I try to set my mind at ease.
Why is it then that I beg for my time?
Why is it then that I promise to do more, to prioritize more carefully the things I will cherish when they’re grown?
Because it brings me peace?
Because if I promise it enough, I may actually follow through?