Time Slip

Time travel in Japanese for some reason I can’t comprehend is called “Time Slip.” Is time really a slippery substance? I don’t know for sure, but it’s quite possible.

Time keeps just slipping and sliding through my fingers.

One night when Me Too was five or six months old, I rolled over and looked at her, totally amazed at how big she had gotten.

“But she’s still little,” I thought. “There’s still lots of time.”

I look at her now, five going on six, while she is sleeping. The curve of her cheeks is still plump and round. The shape of her eyes, the curve of her brow, are still the same. Her long eyelashes still flutter in her sleep in the same way. But her face is framed by long, dark hair now. Her arms and legs are long and thin. She doesn’t fit, body and soul, in the curve of my arm anymore.

I’m not sure how that happened, almost overnight. I’m not sure if I’ve taught her and showed her what she needs to know to swim in a riptide of schoolgirls.

And even while I ponder all these things, time continues to drip and trickle through my fingers, slipping away to the puddle of memory at my feet.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: