Stories are the bricks of our souls and time is their lovely landscape. Without them, we are merely minute hands on a clock, ticking by, rotating around the sun again, 4, 5, 6, again, 7, 8, 9. Stop. We are the story of 10:00 pm and 45 degrees from the sun when we laughed our knees into concrete, remember that?
We sit now at 1:05pm and spit giggles into mugs, laying our humming bodies on couches, running our minds over the time when we were 10:00 pm on concrete. And suddenly, the earth sprints a track race around the sun and we are back sipping coffee under a clock, talking about the last time we laughed like that.
I don’t want to look in the mirror for a while. It reminds me of where I stand in time. A flashing street light telling me that childhood has stopped, and I am here now. Without the mirror, the past and future seem to flood the present and I prefer the blur. Yes, mirror, I am here now. But I am also every story of this very carpet and every late night question on that pillow and maybe these very air molecules have touched my face before, so we are together again, and will be here again, does it really matter when? We are not linear.
I meet myself over and over again when I come home. I taste the air that I ran into at recess and my bare feet reintroduce themselves to the cold, familiar driveway. I’ve been there before. How are you? I ask myselves. I’ve been good. I’ve been here. I’m back here. I’m so glad we’re all here.