On Tuesday the moon was still up when I walked to the lake in the morning. I was in the slot, now. Like being at the airport on one of those skywalks when you know you’re about to go time carries you off, and won’t let you loose.
I was supposed to do this trip a year ago, but because I hired a bad passport renewal service my passport didn’t arrive until the day after my flight left so I had to cancel it. I could reschedule within a year and pay a penalty, so I did.
If they say time isn’t real than why do I feel its presence inside me? Is it an ache for something I had, or a flutter for something I don’t? Is time the perception of loss, or the anticipation of something more?
On the day I was supposed to leave for that trip I got up at 4 AM and drove to the coast, then hiked by myself for 50 miles. There was really no way to replace an imagined trip to the Alps, but I tried.
And now I am so near the border between here and there, so close to leaving that I can feel what it will be like when I’m there. It’s like being in both places and neither at the same time, blurred—and we are always like that, between the here and there, nowhere, feeling as if we should.