My lilacs have embryonic blossoms and emerging green leaves. The daffodils are in bloom. The crocuses have begun to fade. The forsythia I planted last year is still alive. The reddish leaves of the Bleeding Heart are unfolding. Spring. I love spring.
But I am alarmed at how fast the seasons come and go. I know, I know! That’s the theme that runs through this blog, my constant disbelief at how life slips through my fingers. I can’t grip it, can’t turn it over in my hands, can’t examine it at length. Christmas turned into Valentine’s Day and Easter will pop up for a split second before summer pushes its way to the front of the line.
The worst of it all is that if you miss an opportunity, it’s gone. That little kid who wanted a piggy-back ride now needs a shave. The baby boy you rocked on those sleepy early mornings now sets his own alarm and gets ready without any interference from you. Your baby girl doesn’t let you dress her like a doll–she has her own opinions about clothes and in fact, has a few things she’d like to tell you about your personal style–or lack of it. And she’s only seven.
No one sits on my lap anymore. We’ve all moved on. Only they are moving on and I’m standing still, looking at their backs.
When I left home, I was eighteen. I boarded a Greyhound bus for a three-day journey to college. I didn’t look back. I’d waited my whole life to board that bus and start my life . . . my childhood had seemed an eternity to me, so it never occurred to me that it had flown by faster than the speed of sound for my parents.
So, March marches on like those African ants you’ve heard about that ravage everything in their path. Look closely before it’s all gone. Gather up the stuff that matters. Read the little kids a storybook while they still clamor for your attention. All too soon they’ll be counting the days until they can get away from you.
Blink. They’re gone.