The sound of my kids upstairs in the morning singing, getting ready for school, the same nonsensical sound as birds in spring, makes you wonder why they really sing, if it’s to sooth themselves.
I get to fix them toast and have a moment with them, to bookend the days. And then sitting at the light getting off the freeway going in to work: how fast the clouds move, like we’re on some other planet, a frame of a character in silhouette with clouds whipping by overhead like bits of cotton or real, living things, the clouds.
How fast they move, like our perception of time: our time on the road last year in the UK this month: Dawn and I try to remember where we were, our impression of it, how it slowed to a dense, timeless pace, our senses full—and yet as we move through the days now so similar to one another they seem, how indistinct, how fast the weeks go, they just drop off. I want to pledge to make each one unique, the days make a life.