In the early morning before the sun comes up we sit in the dark with a candle and our coffees and ask how the other one slept. Letting the dog out and standing in the fog, hurrying back in beneath the blankets. This is the whole expanse of time in half an hour at most. It is as sacred as going to church. And so seamless and routine, we almost forget.

I’ll walk to the lake thinking about work, taking it all apart. Or my uncle in Pennsylvania, or the time we spent in Scotland. There is a house on the lake with a red lampshade that’s always on, no matter how early. It reminds me of that place we rented in late November, a far-away time.

My uncle said that you can see Jupiter in the east with Mars to the right and Saturn to the left, if you have a good view and it’s early enough. Clouds today and I’m grateful, I didn’t feel like heading out that early.

Lily got picked up by a girl who’s 16 and driving now. They went shopping for a school project and Dawn gave her money for dinner. She was wearing lots of makeup, and hurried out.

Like many people, I think about most things I touch now. And things just keep getting canceled. I’ve had an ear ache for three days and have to wonder if it entered me there, or if it’s just wax.

The animals, punctual about their eating, are figuring out the time change thing.

The cleaners come every two weeks and when they leave it’s perfect for about a day. I wonder why we even bother, it’s so short-lived. You can’t save it, it’s temporary.

The cat is curled in a ball and sleeps a hundred times a day: perfect rest in 10-minute bits. They say they have no concept of time. Then how is it they know exactly when it’s time to eat, even if we’ve changed the clocks?

Time measures the space between events. And doesn’t exist, they’ve proven that. So what do we do with all of this space? We wait for the next time to feed.

Categories: microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: aging, creative nonfiction, existentialism, journal writing, Memoir, microblogging, parenting, prose, short form