Looking in the mirror while shaving, I stare at my reflection. It’s in those moments when I think of the old man staring back at me. It’s been 27 years since he passed, and while the pain has long subsided. I can’t help but wonder what he would think of the old man I’ve become. You never quite get over the vacancy left in your heart by death. The fights, the laughter, the nods and winks, the inside jokes. Those little things that make a life.
Yet here I am, sitting on the porch at sunset. What few finches are still hanging around chirp a little goodnight song. While I type words that few if any will ever read. But that’s okay, for these words are my therapy. A legacy left out on a wire. It’s early winter, the crepe myrtles, the fig bush, and the pecan trees wait for pruning. Yet I sit here contemplating the natural passage of time.
It’s funny how in the moments we least expect it, we wonder where the years go. You would think by now I’d stop obsessing about such things. But there’s something ornate about death brings it back to mind. But before I dribble into depression about it, I remind myself of memories. The keys that anchor us to who we are, who we wish to be. That’s where I find comfort in change. Aware that time is a linear line that we all must walk.