When I blink my eyes, everything is different. Slightly, ever so slightly closer to tomorrow. To next month. Next year. I just wish I could remember this. Every time. Before they go on their way.
When raising 10 and 15 year old daughters, I have to be persistent. If I want them to refine their swim stroke, I’ve learned that I have to come up with an incentive. Because an hour in the pool with a coach is like being sent to the likes of teenage purgatory. But 10 minutes chatting with them while feasting on a hot-fudge sundae is like nirvana to me. Ergo, genesis “swim stroke sundaes.”
It takes 10,000 years for energy from the sun’s core to work it’s way to the surface. Then, in 8 minutes, it reaches the surface of the earth and I can feel it touching my skin as I watch them from the side of the pool. Time can seem infinite. Then you blink. And it doesn’t seem so much anymore.
I just wish I could remember.