|me, emerging from the water on |
a whopping 39 degrees. . .
Write on the beach,
bask in the sun,
swim in the open water in nothing but a bathing suit and goggles.
New York, post-hurricane, is hell right now. People suffering. Moreso, on this gray, gloomy day.
A dead tree, toppled by Sandy, is blocking my view of the street.
I'll get back, but the hurricane knocked me off my path.
My revisions are due soon on the book still (temporarily) known as Frankie Sky. College apps are due for my oldest son. . . the man who is taller than I am, who sleeps in the other room.
How did he get big like that, my son?
How did his childhood speed through here?
I tried to stay alert, and present and focused, to soak it all in, to take my time and enjoy it and make it all last. But, alas, I find myself awakened like some aging Sleeping Beauty, to it disappearing beyond reach, the tail end fading off in the rear view mirror.
I know there is life after the kids leave home -- after 50 -- but, still, I don't know how I got here, on the verge.
Waving goodbye to a whole part of my life that was just stretched out before me.
How often in this blog do I long (whine? God, let me not whine) for the days and weeks back, to slow time down. To stop it from blurring by so fast.
How often do I douse myself in water, hoping the submersion will preserve me, reconstitute the days and years that have simply flown by. Or, at least my ability to ground myself, and the will to accept they are gone.
|a few short years ago. . .|