I haven’t been writing much. I haven’t been speaking much either. Sometimes words don’t hold the weight I want them to.
I’ve been thinking a lot. I’ve been thinking about the past. Not much about the present. Never about the future.
I drove by a birthday party on my way home from work yesterday. Kids ran around the yard but never past the “Birthday Party This Way” sign with a balloon tied to it on the corner. Parents sat in lawn chairs under a tent in the driveway.
I wonder if they could taste the bittersweet flavor on their tongues like I did. I wonder if they could feel the sting behind their eyes like I did. I wonder if they tried to reach out and grab the moment like I did.
I can close my eyes and put myself there all over again. I see the balloons. Smell the fresh cut grass. Hear the adults talking about how hot it’s been this April as their voices are muffled by the sound of my friends laughing.
I snap my eyes open when the truck behind me honks their horn. The stoplight turned green, and I’m not turning 10 years old.
It’s funny how time never moves the way I want it to. It outruns me, laps me, and outruns me again.
I’m not scared to admit that I don’t think it has made me any wiser.
I find myself tugging at the sleeve of my youth, and the fibers pull away. It outruns me too.
Do I chase it? I never do.
All I’m left with is a pile of yarn at my feet that used to be my favorite sweater.
Image Sourced From The Metrolopolitan Museum of Art
Not an Artist 